


Frame of Reference

by dracoqueen22



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Coding Issues, M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Twincest, moral and ethical dilemmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:02:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22078897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: When Drift falls ill, a dive into his coding reveals a secret the Senate tried to bury, a secret that has altered the course of the war since before its inception. Burdened by the truth, the Autobots try their best to set things right, but in the process, Prowl is forced to face his own involvement in the matter – for better or for worse.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Perceptor, Jazz/Optimus Prime, Megatron/Soundwave, Prowl/Sideswipe/Sunstreaker, Ratchet/Starscream
Comments: 134
Kudos: 241





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission for the wonderful Stormshadow who came to me with such a delightful prompt, I leapt at the chance to take it on.

They might have gone on forever, fighting and killing and destroying, if it hadn’t been for Drift. They wouldn’t have found the virus; they wouldn’t have stopped to question. They’d have gone on and on, until there was nothing left but ashes.  
  
If not for a single line of unusual code, they might have never stopped to _think_.  
  
But Prowl’s getting ahead of himself.  
  
It starts with Drift.  
  
It starts with the Wreckers returning to the fold, landing a rickety ship in the docking bay of Ark-22, the outside scored with laserfire, impact marks, and centuries of hard use. It looks a few seconds away from collapsing on the spot.  
  
The cargo ramp extends and drops with a rusty clatter, tilting off-balance to one side.  
  
“Primus gotta be lookin’ out for them, if they’ve been survivin’ in that thing,” Jazz observes. His face is twisted into a horrified awe, and Prowl wonders if that’s the same look on his own face.  
  
They, along with Ratchet, are the greeting party as Optimus is otherwise occupied with Ironhide and the newest intelligence, which suggests the Decepticons have constructed a new weapon of mass destruction. Weapons being Ironhide’s expertise, he’s poring over the stolen schematics with the kind of eager glee Prowl usually only sees in Wheeljack when caught in the rapture of a new invention.  
  
“They should have rejoined us decades ago,” Prowl says as he notates the condition of the Xantium on his datapad. It will go in his report for Optimus. “What in the universe was Ultra Magnus thinking?”  
  
“You’ll have to ask him,” Jazz says as Ratchet shoulder-checks him, pushing past with all the subtlety of a rampaging combiner, his gaze locked on the stretcher descending the ramp, carried between Top Spin and Twin Twist. Perceptor walks alongside it, fingers of one hand tangled with the patient, the other clutching a datapad.  
  
“Come on, Ratch, that was rude,” Jazz calls after him, but it’s half-sparked at best.  
  
Prowl cycles a vent and stows his datapad for now. Ultra Magnus precedes the stretcher with their injured party member, and his expression is grim. Then again, Ultra Magnus has always been something of a grim mech.  
  
Prowl intercepts him. “Welcome aboard the Ark-22,” he greets, and the two of them exchange polite salutes -- matching rank to rank. “Welcome home, Ultra Magnus.”  
  
“Or as close to home as we have these days,” Ultra Magnus replies with a brief nod. He offers one to Jazz as well. “Lucky you were so close.”  
  
Jazz chuffs a ventilation. “That’s a pretty interesting word there. How the frag you keep that thing from falling out the sky?”  
  
The corner of Ultra Magnus’ mouth lifts toward a smile. “Xantium’s more stable than she looks. We’ve snuck through quite a few blockades by looking worthless.”  
  
“That’s pretty clever, Mags. Who came up with that one?” Jazz asks  
  
“Who else, youngling? You think I’ve survived this long without learnin’ a trick or two?” Kup clatters up beside Ultra Magnus with a laziness to his stride that suggests he’s not even a quarter as dangerous as he actually is. “Taught this one everythin’ he knows.” He throws a thumb at Ultra Magnus.  
  
Jazz chuckles. "Ya taught all of us, old mech." He swaggers forward and clasps hands with Kup. "Glad to see ya alive."  
  
"Back atcha, Jazz. Surprised you ain't thrown yerself on a grenade yet." Kup's raspy laugh echoes in the cargo bay.  
  
Prowl's sensory panels twitch. While it's good to see old friends alive after so long, there are more pressing matters. "What of your soldier?" he asks, trying to steer the conversation back on track. "The one who's ill?"  
  
"Perceptor could probably tell you more about his symptoms," Ultra Magnus says, his tone shifting toward grave. "My understanding only goes as far as realizing we needed an expert's opinion."  
  
"Otherwise you might not have sought us out?" Prowl asks, prodding gently. There's been a long-standing order for the Wreckers to return, though Optimus has never been keen on enforcing it.  
  
Ultra Magnus gives him a long, hard look. "This war is no longer one to be won with grand battles and clashes, but small victories. If I'd thought it prudent to return to the front, I would have."  
  
"Come on, mechs. We ain't startin' this now," Jazz says, sliding between them with his hands held up. "Optimus is waitin', and it looks like your crew could use some downtime. So let's focus on that, yeah?" His visor flashes in Prowl's direction with hard warning.  
  
Prowl arches an orbital ridge. "Who's starting anything?" he asks, keeping his tone cool and controlled. "Optimus is in Tactical, if you'd like to follow me." He turns on a heelstrut, leaving it up to the others to follow, if they want.  
  
He and Ultra Magnus have always had something of a strained relationship. Prowl can't pinpoint precisely why. They serve a different purpose, though they often share Optimus' left hand as Jazz firmly has possession of Optimus' right. Perhaps it's pride.  
  
He'll need to be rid of that as soon as possible. Optimus needs their assistance, not their friction. The war drags ever on, and if there's any hope of seeing an end to it, Prowl and Ultra Magnus will have to work together.  
  
It's as simple as that.  
  


~

  
  
It's a familiar frame which comes into Ratchet's medbay.  
  
Some of the lines and angles have changed. There is armor where they'd been minimum protoform and plating. The mech is armed, scarred, covered in weld lines that speak of battle, rather than hard living in the Dead End. But he's Drift all right.  
  
Or Deadlock, as he'd taken to calling himself among the Decepticons.  
  
According to his file, according to Perceptor, he's Drift once more. The circumstances of how and why are vague at best. Perceptor isn't offering details, if he knows them, and Drift isn't in a condition to explain either.  
  
He's in stasis lock.  
  
"I'm certain it's a coding issue," Perceptor says, and his voice has an edge of static, and his hands shake where he grips his datapad. "But I don't feel comfortable diving into his core matrix, and I don't have the permissions for the appropriate software anyway."  
  
Ratchet is many things, but imperceptive is not one of them. It's been a long, long war. Indiscretions happen on both sides of the line. He is not without his own, after all.  
  
He rests a hand over Perceptor's, feels the chill in Perceptor's armor, the tremble of worry and agitation in Perceptor's energy field. "How long?" Ratchet asks, careful to keep his tone gentle.  
  
Perceptor's gaze is locked on his datapad. "The odd behavior started about a month before the glitching, and then-"  
  
"No," Ratchet interrupts, and he squeezes Perceptor's hand, urges him to look up. "How long have you and Drift been together?"  
  
Perceptor freezes. His gaze lifts achingly slow, and the worry in his field strengthens to an almost nauseating force of hinted fear. "Since he was Deadlock," he admits, and there's guilt in the way he worries at his bottom lip with his denta. "I saved his life once. The rest just... happened."  
  
"As it so often does," Ratchet murmurs. He gives Perceptor's hand a little pat and returns his attention to his datapad. "I'm not going to judge. I just want to help Drift. Because I think you're right. This looks like a coding issue."  
  
Perceptor vents, long and slow. "How long can he be in stasis lock before he..."  
  
"That's the beauty of stasis lock. It's specifically designed to protect a mech's core components when there are issues. So long as the corrupted coding doesn't infiltrate his safe state, he'll be just fine." Ratchet offers a smile, though a part of him dreads the task awaiting him.  
  
He hates coding issues. He's never been the best coder. There's a reason he's an effective battle medic, and it's not because he's good at coding.  
  
Primus, but he wishes Shockwave were on their side. He's the best coder Ratchet can think of who's still functioning.  
  
He'll have to the best he can on his own.  
  
"Don't worry," Ratchet says, patting Perceptor on the shoulder. "We're going to figure this out. You're not going to lose him."  
  
"Thank you, Ratchet."  
  
He only hopes he's not telling Perceptor a lie.  
  


~

  
  
"Yes, I'm aware Drift used to be a Decepticon," Ultra Magnus says with the first hint of annoyance to enter his tone. "He's not the first defector we've harbored, and I doubt he'll be the last."  
  
Optimus lifts a hand before a sharp rebuttal manages to spill from Prowl. He cuts a look at his current second in command, and Prowl at least has the grace to look chastened.  
  
The discussion, near an argument, has gone on long enough. While Optimus is happy to let his closest confidantes offer their points of view, there’s a time when discussion turns non-productive, and he has a feeling prodding this line of thought is heading that direction.  
  
“Every defector we accept is one less Decepticon to fight,” Optimus says with a gravitas he tries to avoid, but finds it accomplishes more when his subordinates are arguing.  
  
Again.  
  
“Besides, that isn’t the point,” Optimus continues as all optics turn his direction while Prowl makes a note in his datapad. “We’re not here to discuss Drift’s background, but his health. Has anyone else displayed symptoms similar to his?”  
  
Ultra Magnus lifts his chin. “You’re concerned this might be contagious. Perhaps a viral weapon of some sort.”  
  
“The thought did cross my mind,” Ironhide comments as he rubs his chin, engine rumbling with realization. “Not sayin’ Drift woulda done it intentional-like, but ya know how crafty the Cons can be sometimes.”  
  
Prowl makes a non-committal noise. “That is also a concern, yes.”  
  
“If anyone was going to be infected next, it’d be Perceptor, but he’s fine,” Kup says with a roll of his shoulders. “Whatever’s going on, it’s just Drift.”  
  
Prowl frowns.  
  
Optimus raps his fingers on the table, contemplating. “His symptoms? Your report was vague.”  
  
“Agitation. Anger. Aggression.” Ultra Magnus shifts in his chair, fatigue wreathing his frame, his armor creaking. “At first, we thought he was struggling to adjust to life among the Autobots, but it continued to worsen. When the seizures began, we started to suspect a medical reason for his misbehavior.”  
  
“Seizures?” Optimus echoes. He leans forward, worry worming into his spark.  
  
Kup shakes his head. “Look, I ain’t a medic, Prime. All I know is one moment Drift’s in the brig for assaulting Whirl -- which lemme tell you, was probably provoked -- and the next thing we know, he’s flailing about the floor, spitting sparks and screaming.”  
  
Optimus winces.  
  
Prowl’s stylus stops moving, and he slowly lifts a gaze toward Ultra Magnus and Kup, opposite the table from him. “And you’re certain it wasn’t a ploy?”  
  
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think it’s possible to falsely put oneself into stasis lock,” Ultra Magnus says, his tone so tight and cold, Optimus feels the iciness of it.  
  
“Besides, what would be the point?” Kup asks.  
  
Prowl puts down his datapad and pinches the bridge of his nasal structure. “A medical need outstripping the capability of your onboard professionals would necessitate a return to the nearest fully-staffed facility -- which happens to be this one.” His sensory panels flick sharply, and his field surges through the room with a hint of chastisement. “The Ark-22 is known to house Autobot senior leadership, and is the perfect target for a viral attack, whether by the knowledge of its carrier or not.”  
  
Silence.  
  
Optimus vents, long and slow.  
  
Prowl’s right, of course. They’ve all been so focused with concern over one of their subordinates, over someone Perceptor cares so deeply for, that they’ve neglected to consider the more nefarious implications.  
  
“He’s in quarantine,” Jazz offers up, but his engine revs, and his visor flashes. He’s almost out of his chair, like he wants to jet down to medbay and pull every Autobot medic and scientist out of Drift’s room.  
  
“With the most skilled medic in the Autobot army, our weapons engineer, and a scientific genius,” Prowl says quietly, but if he was the type to say ‘I told you so’, Optimus knows he’d be shouting the words.  
  
Prowl shifts, coughs into his palm. “I am not suggesting we should deny Drift medical care, or that the better course of action would have been to ignore his plight. Neither am I suggesting that he’s a spy or a plant. I’m merely stating the possible consequences.”  
  
Silence again.  
  
Optimus cycles a long ventilation. He rubs his forehead, feeling an ache building behind his optics. “Is there anyway to determine whether Drift’s current state is a danger to the rest of us?”  
  
“Only Ratch can answer that,” Jazz says, and his frown deepens, far from the jovial grin he usually tries to keep. “I mean, I can take a peek at whatever Ratch finds, but if Drift’s some kind of carrier, it’s too late.”  
  
“Damn,” Ironhide mutters, and though no one echoes it aloud, the sentiment is shared by everyone in the room, Optimus included.  
  
“All we can do is brace ourselves then.” Optimus lifts his head, his chin, drawing strength around him like a mantle, because it’s what his mechs need from him. “Keep Drift in quarantine as much as we can. Determine the cause of his illness as soon as possible, and deal with the repercussions as they appear.”  
  
He exchanges a knowing glance with Jazz, who lifts his head in acknowledgment. Before the meeting is over, someone from Special Operations will be keeping an optic on the medbay and its occupants. And until Drift is cured and his illness determined, there will never be a moment he’s not under unbiased observation.  
  
There are times it’s a little frightening how well Jazz understands him. How well they understand each other.  
  
“Now,” Optimus says, shifting to get a bit more comfortable and hopefully, shift the mood of the meeting. “There are other topics, I think, we should put on the table. Ironhide, if you would, please?”  
  
Ironhide grunts and slaps a datapad down on the table. “Yeah, so this is what we think the Cons have cookin’ up now…”  
  
Battle tactics, improvised weaponry, and troop movements -- these at least, Optimus is confident he and his team can handle. As for the rest, they can only wait and see.  
  


~

  
  
“I hear there’s a Decepticon in our midst.”  
  
Prowl snorts without looking up from his datapad. “Former Decepticon, to hear them tell it,” he says and makes another notation. Ratchet’s preliminary findings suggest Drift’s sickness is contained to Drift himself, but he’s not ready to sign off on that being a certainty. “Sunstreaker, you’ve encountered him before if I recall correctly.”  
  
“Deadlock,” Sunstreaker says, and Prowl can hear the sneer in his voice, even if he hasn’t looked up to acknowledge his visitors. “That’s one mech I’d never thought would defect. Word has it he and Megatron are close.”  
  
“Like the berth kind of close,” Sideswipe says, and there’s a noisy rattling-thump as he drops down in one of Prowl’s chair with an uncaring flop. “Then again, maybe Megatron is a selfish lover. I’d defect for that.”  
  
Sideswipe’s leering. Prowl doesn’t have to look to know he’s leering. He can feel the leer being directed at him.  
  
“Idiot,” Sunstreaker says, but it’s fond, even as he cuffs his brother on the back of the head. “Be serious for a minute.”  
  
“I am being serious.”  
  
“Do you think he’s a danger?” Prowl asks.  
  
“We’re all dangerous, Prowl,” Sunstreaker says.  
  
“That’s not what he’s asking, Sunny,” Sideswipe retorts, and there’s a dull thwack as he punches Sunstreaker in the hip, prompting a scowl from his twin. “If he’s a double-agent, it would be a smart move. Ratchet has a past with him. Perceptor has a present with him. But Deadlock wasn’t exactly known for being subtle. Get me?”  
  
Prowl makes another scribbled notation and finally looks up. Sunstreaker’s glaring at an unrepentant Sideswipe, both of their armor fluffed, and this is either going to end up in a wrestling match in Prowl’s office, or a wrestling match on the berth later.  
  
Sunstreaker stiffly sits in the other chair and puts a great effort into ignoring his twin. “Megatron would sooner shoot a mech he thinks is fraternizing than try and use that to his advantage,” he says with that unique insight few often get to see from him. “Drift’s sincere, if you ask me. Perceptor seems to think so.”  
  
“Perceptor thinks he’s in love with him. Of course he’d believe Drift,” Sideswipe says with derision ripe in his tone. Prowl isn’t sure if it’s because of Sideswipe’s aversion to the idea of ‘love’ and its weakness, or if it’s because he’s averse to Drift or Perceptor or both.  
  
Sometimes, Sideswipe is the more complicated of the two. He holds his emotions close to his spark, while Sunstreaker has no filter.  
  
Sunstreaker shoots his brother another look Prowl can’t decipher, and he suspects it’s because they’re talking over their bond, as they often do. He waits them out, contemplating a return to his paperwork, before their attention redirects to him.  
  
“Your shift is over,” Sideswipe says, blunt.  
  
“It was over two hours ago,” Sunstreaker points out. “Ultra Magnus is here now. You can share the load. You need to take a break.”  
  
Prowl cycles a ventilation, schools his expression into one of patience. “Their arrival necessitates the shuffling of duties and responsibilities. There is a lot of work left to do.”  
  
“It can wait until tomorrow.” Sunstreaker’s jaw sets, a look of stubbornness writ into his expression, and one on one, the twins are a formidable foe.  
  
Together, they are nearly unbeatable.  
  
Prowl’s resolve crumbles.  
  
There’s an ache in his backstrut, a clench in his tanks, a concern wrapping around his spark. He’s working on data because anxiety has twisted itself into a knot inside of him, and waiting for the verdict on Drift has him on edge. How perfect, then, is a distraction in the shape of his two very handsome lovers.  
  
“Ratch even said he won’t have much of an answer for three whole shifts,” Sideswipe says, and there’s a devilish grin on his face, a perky flicker of his armor as there always is, when he’s tormenting one of his favorite mechs on the ship.  
  
Ratchet has the dubious honor of being one such mech, though the fact that he’s made himself pseudo-caretaker toward the twins means any irritation Sideswipe causes him is his own fault.  
  
Sunstreaker rises and circles the desk. Prowl feels a bit like prey, trapped as he is with the predator approaching him.  
  
“Come,” Sunstreaker says, rather than wheedles, and he leans in close, shiny and freshly washed and waxed. “Your paint is atrocious.”  
  
“You say the sweetest things,” Sideswipe says with a roll of his optics, but he’s sitting back in his own chair with a look of absolute determination in his face.  
  
It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve bodily hauled him out of his office, wrestled him into a washrack, and coaxed him into the berth with sweet kisses. Sometimes, Prowl enjoys the struggle as much as he enjoys giving in.  
  
“Sideswipe made treats,” Sunstreaker adds as he cups Prowl’s jaw, brushing a thumb over his bottom lip. “But you can’t have any if you don’t take a break.”  
  
Prowl aims for a stern look, but his twitching sensory panels betray him. “I am confused about who the superior officer is here,” he says, but he leans into Sunstreaker’s touch, feeling the exhaustion in his backstrut, and the anxiety gnawing on his cortex.  
  
Sideswipe snorts. “It’s definitely not you.” He shoves to his feet and sweeps the datapads off Prowl’s desk -- he’s learned by now how Prowl stacks his work by order of priority.  
  
“No, it’s not,” Sunstreaker murmurs in agreement, and his mouth falls over Prowl’s, deliciously gentle and corrupting, and Prowl has no hope to concentrate on work now. Not with the taste of Sunstreaker on his lips, and the promise in the kiss.  
  
“No more work tonight,” Prowl agrees.  
  
He’ll table his worries for now. He has twins to snuggle.  
  
He supposes he can table his worries for now. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe deserve his attention as well, and he doesn't want to neglect them. He cares for them too much for that.  
  
So he lets them coax him from his office with gentle caresses and warm kisses that taste of stolen high grade and wheedled energon candies. Or perhaps fresh made. Sideswipe considers himself something of a chemist, and Prowl has done his best to encourage that, though delicately. Encourage too much and Sideswipe will quit on principle alone.  
  
Back in Prowl's quarters, their shared quarters truth be told, as he can't remember the last time they slept in the soldier barracks, the lights stay low and intimate.  
  
"If we turn on the lights, you might think it permission to turn on your work console," Sideswipe says as he tugs Prowl toward the berth with heat in his optics.  
  
That they desire him enough to put in such effort will never cease to amaze and humble Prowl. He knows they fear he is out of their league, but truth be told, Prowl knows they deserve much better than a mech like him, a mech who works too much, who holds his emotions too close, who can barely string three words of affection together.  
  
"And we can't have that," Sunstreaker says, already waiting with arms open to receive Prowl as Sideswipe guides him into reach. "Mm. There you are," he murmurs and pulls Prowl down into another kiss, his hands sweeping hungry patterns over Prowl's armor.  
  
The berth creaks as Sideswipe joins them with a little bounce. "Any preferences tonight?" he asks as he stretches out in the bare space behind Sunstreaker, panels open, fingers stroking over his array in obvious invitation.  
  
Prowl's mouth goes dry with want. He licks his lips. "I would taste you," he says, in answer to Sideswipe, and he catches Sunstreaker's gaze. "If you'll have me at the same time."  
  
A shiver runs through Sunstreaker's armor. His optics darken with hunger. "Always," he says, and seizes Prowl into another kiss, this one more fierce and claiming, his hands gripping Prowl's aft and squeezing.  
  
"Nnn. Sunny, don't hog him," Sideswipe whines as the berth shifts again. He pulls himself up, leaning against the wall, but leaving plenty of room for Prowl to slide between his legs, put his mouth over a spike hard and slick with pre-fluid, or slide his tongue over a valve bright and blinking readily.  
  
"Patience," Sunstreaker says, without looking, as he presses his forehead to Prowl's, sharing a conspiratorial grin. He slides his hands around the curve of Prowl's aft. "Should we make him wait longer?"  
  
Prowl chuckles quietly. "He'll start without us."  
  
Certainly enough, there's a quiet moan and the slick sound of Sideswipe stroking himself, fingers caressing the rim of his valve and flirting over his nodes.  
  
"He's such a brat," Sunstreaker murmurs, but he steals another kiss before releasing Prowl to tend to their impatient third.  
  
"A badge I wear with pride," Sideswipe declares as Prowl eases his way across the berth and between Sideswipe's knees. "Come here, beautiful," he says and pulls Prowl into a kiss, which puts him off-balance, but it's worth it for the warm press of Sideswipe's mouth to his.  
  
Beautiful, he says, but Prowl's not sure he believes it. Maybe finds it a little easier since they say it so often and with such sincerity, but he looks at himself compared to the dual beauty that the twins are, and he wonders how they can call him such, when they can see themselves.  
  
Sunstreaker's hands fall on the back of Prowl's sensory panels, fingers sweeping over and around, finding every spot that fills him with heat and makes him tingle. It all pools southward, gathering hot and heavy in his groin, and his panels spiral open, freeing his array to the open air, the caress of Sunstreaker's fingers.  
  
Prowl groans against Sideswipe's mouth as Sunstreaker strokes slippery-wet over Prowl's anterior node, and drags his fingers over Prowl's swollen pleats, spreading his lubricant around.  
  
"In me," Prowl demands, over his shoulder, need growing inside of him. They always make him feel so open and wanton, like he's free to express his wants. Encouraged, even, because their arousal magnifies tenfold when he asks anything of them.  
  
Sideswipe strokes a thumb over his bottom lip. "Still want to give me this?"  
  
Prowl licks the tip of his thumb in answer, then shifts down, down, down, until his mouth hovers over the wet tip of Sideswipe's spike, rigid and full with arousal. The smell of his need floods Prowl's receptors. Arousal throbs heavy and deep in his system.  
  
He takes Sideswipe into his mouth, tonguing the head first, probing the channel slit with his glossa, before swallowing him.  
  
Sideswipe groans and cradles Prowl's head. The hungry weight of Sideswipe’s gaze falls on Prowl -- Sideswipe likes to watch -- and when he looks up, their optics meet, Sideswipe's dark with desire.  
  
Prowl's face heats. Perhaps because of Sideswipe's rapt attention, or perhaps because Sunstreaker's fingers have been insistent over his valve, stroking and plucking and driving him to distraction. Prowl makes an urgent noise, a frustrated sound, pushing back into the cradle of Sunstreaker's hips, where a wet spike brushes his aft.  
  
"Now who's the one being impatient?" Sideswipe teases as he strokes Prowl's cheeks, his hips rocking ever so gently into Prowl's mouth.  
  
Prowl glares at him.  
  
Sideswipe's smile widens. "Better hurry, Sunny, before he decides to bite my spike in retaliation."  
  
Oh, but the temptation.  
  
Sunstreaker chuckles quietly, but he obeys, his lubricant-sticky fingers cradling Prowl's aft as his spike nudges Prowl's valve. Prowl widens his knees, rocks back, and moans as Sunstreaker pierces him, achingly slow, filling his valve inch by inch. Prowl's elbows dig into the berth, his hands cradle Sideswipe's hips, and he vocalizes around Sideswipe's spike.  
  
Their fields swell, tingling with heat and desire. They wrap him up in it. Prowl sinks into the pleasure as if its the easiest thing in the world.  
  
Their rhythm is easy. Practiced. Familiar. The twins work together in this as well as they work elsewhere. As Sunstreaker sinks forward, Sideswipe rocks his hips upward, and they slide into him at the same moment. Prowl moans around Sideswipe's spike, pleasure throbbing through his array.  
  
"Primus, you're gorgeous," Sideswipe groans, his optics wide as he holds Prowl's face, thumbs stroking his cheeks, watching the slide of himself into Prowl's mouth.  
  
Prowl shivers, and Sunstreaker strokes deep into him, hips circling to ensure he caresses every one of Prowl’s inner nodes. His hand paints a pattern over Prowl’s sensory panels, while the other slides beneath him, curling around his spike in a firm grip. He strokes Prowl perfectly, warm and squeezing with that little twist that never fails to make lightning crawl up Prowl’s spinal strut.  
  
He groans, long and low, around Sideswipe’s spike, and is rewarded with a sharp vent, a little buck of Sideswipe’s hips. His spike throbs on Prowl’s glossa, pre-fluid beading thick and sticky down Prowl’s intake.  
  
Prowl takes him deeper, lips stretched around the girth of him. He wants to taste Sideswipe’s pleasure and know it’s because of something he’s done, while Sunstreaker’s pace picks up, pushing harder and faster into him, making his nodes sing.  
  
It’s a blur of pleasure, of touch and noise, vents and cooling fans, a litany of moans and gasps, and Sideswipe’s ongoing commentary, encouraging his twin, Prowl, speaking lewd things to make Prowl’s audials heat, but his internals spark with desire. He goes languid between them, letting Sideswipe guide his mouth, and Sunstreaker hold him in place for each deep stroke. It’s easy to abandon his control to them, let them set the pace, offer his trust.  
  
He knows, by now, they won’t betray it. Trust, to them, is a precious and fragile thing. Prowl is damn lucky to have earned theirs, and he’s handed his own back in return.  
  
Primus, he loves them.  
  
Overload hits him hard and fierce and sudden. Prowl stills, ecstasy sweeping through his frame, Sideswipe falling from his lips as he arches back into Sunstreaker’s grip. His valve clenches, his spike spurts a mess on the berth, and his field flashes through the room with a bonfire of need, his sensory panels fluttering madly.  
  
“Damn,” Sideswipe breathes, and he closes his fingers around his spike, pumping furiously, striping himself at a rapid pace. “Damn, damn, damn -- hngh.” He grunts, curls forward, and the hot splashes of his release land on Prowl’s cheek, his bottom lip, his chin.  
  
It feels like being marked, being claimed, and Prowl loves it.  
  
“You two give the best shows,” Sunstreaker gasps as he hauls backward on Prowl’s hips, strong enough to pull him onto Sunstreaker’s spike, deep enough to jab at Prowl’s ceiling node and send a secondary jolt of pleasure through his valve.  
  
It takes only a handful of thrusts before he overloads as well, splashing hot and sticky over Prowl’s sensitive nodes. He curls over Prowl, his field slamming down with affection and pleasure.  
  
Hands cup his cheeks, Sideswipe drawing him up for a kiss, lapping up his own spill and sharing it between them, something Prowl would have found unpleasant once upon a time, but now sees it as an intimately erotic gesture.  
  
“Don’t leave me out,” Sunstreaker says as he slips free and presses against Prowl from behind, trying to steal a kiss for himself.  
  
“Wait your turn,” Sideswipe says against Prowl’s lips, with a needling chuckle that makes Prowl smile despite himself. Their bickering is a familiar comfort to him.  
  
“I need a shower,” Prowl says as Sunstreaker steals him for a kiss and almost immediately, the twins start to scrap on a berth that barely fits all three of their frames, and certainly not three frames where two of them are wrestling.  
  
Prowl extricates himself from the tumble and tangle of yellow and red armor. “You can fight or you can join me, your choice,” he says with a flick of his sensory panel and a deliberate step toward the washrack.  
  
He smirks.  
  
He doubts he’ll be alone for long.  
  
Behind him, there’s a yelp, a shout of outrage, and the sound of two mechs scrambling to get off the berth as they give chase.  
  
Exactly as he intended.  
  


***


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a toss-up who’s more exhausted, Perceptor draped on the side of Drift’s berth, head pillowed on his abdomen, fingers of one hand tangled with Drift’s.

Or Ratchet, whose back aches and head hurts and every time he shutters his optics, he sees lines of code streaming through his internal viewscreen. He feels like he’s going to be dreaming of code for weeks.

His shift has been over for hours. He doesn’t dare stop. He lets Perceptor recharge, because it’s obvious Perceptor hasn’t had much of it since Drift fell ill. Ratchet, however, can’t bring himself to stop.

There’s an answer here. He’s sure of it.

He’s worried he might have fibbed a little to Perceptor. Because whatever is causing Drift to remain in stasis lock, is sending a cascade of failures through his internal system. There’s a distinct clash. An incongruity of programs.

Ratchet has to find them before it’s too late. They’re both buried deep, so far into Drift’s matrix that they surround his base coding. Coding that should never be touched. Coding that has obviously been tampered with. It makes Ratchet angry.

He sincerely doubts Drift consented to the tampering. No mech in their right mind would allow someone to futz with their core coding. It’s not a matter of adjusting proficiencies or capabilities. It goes down to a functional level. The slightest misstep could result in spark failure, processor corruption, personality shifts.

Death.

Someone did this to Drift. Whatever it is.

They’d better hope Ratchet can’t ever put a face to a designation. It’s unconscionable.

Ratchet bends his focus back to the code. He’s got two datapads in front of him, one running a line by line analysis of what Drift’s code should look like by drawing a comparison to three different sources -- Blurr, Hot Rod, and Smokescreen. The other is running a script of Drift’s current code, and both are spooling through a similarity program to identify anomalies.

The expected ones are acknowledged and dismissed -- differences in weapon capabilities, frame upgrades, et cetera.

The unexpected anomalies are shunted aside for Ratchet to examine himself. So far, he’s found three requiring his immediate attention, but none of them are the source of Drift’s illness. They need to be corrected, of course, but they are minor issues. Subtle glitches that would have worked themselves out during Drift’s next self-induced nanite upgrade

The steady, quiet hum of the machines surrounding Drift are reassuring and soothing. The endless scrolling of coding might as well be a lullabye. Ratchet unintentionally starts to drift into a light doze when his datapad honks at him, announcing another discrepancy he needs to identify.

Ratchet grumbles, stirs, and bends his focus on the report.

His vents stall. He cycles his optics and sits up straight.

This isn’t a discrepancy. This is something which should not exist. This doesn’t match any coding Ratchet recognizes, and it has wound itself very deeply around Drift’s core behavioral guidelines and moral imperatives. It’s burrowed itself into Drift’s spark coding.

It’s time-stamped for decades after Drift was sparked. Core coding does not get added after sparking. It’s updated and adjusted on a social, surface level, but not at a spark-based level.

Ratchet taps the highlighted string, sends it to another datapad. He sets the first two aside to let them keep running the diagnostic program, and brings up the third datapad. Anger builds in his spark as he skims the coding, tracing it all the way back to the upload date.

This would coincide with Drift’s service to the Decepticons, he’s sure of that much. Ratchet doesn’t recognize the origin location code, but there’s something familiar about it, something he feels he’s seen before.

The code itself could explain Drift’s odd behavior. It’s so deeply entwined with his behavioral matrices that it would subtly affect every choice Drift makes, and every emotion his spark translates. It’s a heinous bit of code, and it’s been wrapped around Drift for so long, it’s rooted itself.

Ratchet fears it may impossible to remove.

His datapad beeps again. Ratchet lifts it to see what else has been highlighted, and his orbital ridges climb upward. There’s another incongruent program, one that doesn’t show in any of the comparison models. It’s newer, matches the timeline where Drift defected, and Ratchet sees the problem right away.

This newly updated program and the older, fouler one, have opposing priority trees. The two of them in combination with Drift’s initial coding have been causing massive conflicts. No wonder he’s in stasis. As the older, more violent coding jostled for space with the newer upload, Drift’s processor couldn’t keep up.

It shut him down out of sheer self-preservation.

What the frag is going on here?

Ratchet sends that program over to his third datapad as well. This is going to take ages to sort out. He wishes he had a copy of Drift’s original core coding, but only Drift would have that, if he’s ever made a secure backup. Ratchet might have to start from scratch, and he’s not the best at this.

Frag it all.

He sighs and looks at Drift recharging and Perceptor snuggled up beside him. “What did you get yourself into, kid?” Ratchet murmurs.

And then he gets back to work.

~

The meeting ping pulls Prowl out of a sound recharge. He snaps into alertness, acknowledging the summons, and gingerly tries to climb out from between the two frontliners cuddling him. Sideswipe growls and makes a grab for him, and Sunstreaker mutters something unkind about Prowl’s parentage.

Prowl deftly avoids Sideswipe’s grab, and presses a kiss to Sunstreaker’s cheek in apology. “I’ll see you both tonight,” he promises, and grabs a cube from the dispenser, his datapads from his desk, and slides out the door before either can give chase.

Which they’ve been known to do.

Despite being pulled from recharge, Prowl is still one of the first to arrive in the conference room, and he snags a seat next to an alert Jazz, who’s wriggling in his seat to music Prowl can’t hear. He’s bent over a datapad, but Prowl’s not holding his vents that Jazz is actually completing the report that’s been overdue for a week.

“All’s quiet on the Drift front,” Jazz says without looking up. “At least in terms of sketchy behavior. Hear Ratch has answers for us about why he’s in stasis.”

Prowl makes himself comfortable. “Do you think he’s a security risk?”

“Not anymore.” Jazz frowns, and his visor flattens to a dim blue. “I looked at that coding, Prowl. It’s a virus, sure enough, but it’s Autobot make.”

Prowl cycles his optics. “What? Optimus would have never--”

“And he didn’t.” Jazz’s mouth flattens into a thin line of disgust, his field flicking Prowl’s as if chastising him for even thinking Optimus capable of ordering such a thing. “This predates Optimus. Frag, it predates the war.”

Predates the…?

“This was done by order of the Senate?” Prowl asks.

“So it seems. We’ll have to see what Ratch has to say.” Jazz’s words are terse, and his posture has lost all signs of good humor. There’s anger in the sharp flick of his fingers over his datapad, and the flat clamp of his armor to his frame. “If I’m right, then this whole war coulda been over centuries ago.”

It’s a revelation beyond Prowl’s capabilities to comprehend right now. It sets his thoughts twirling, sets his sensory panels into a high arch. He stares dumbly at his best friend, clutching tight to datapads, some of whom overlay their upcoming offense and defense strategies against the Decepticons.

The rest of the command staff filter in. Ultra Magnus and Kup. Optimus and Ratchet. Ironhide. Red Alert. Prowl rearranges his datapads in front of him, because it feels like his processor has stalled, and he doesn’t know how to move forward from here.

He admits, if only to himself, that there’s a certain righteousness to the Autobot creed. An idea that they are on the right side of the war, that the Decepticons are the lawless, brutal foes who kill without compunction and would see everyone slaughtered. There is an otherness to the Decepticons, and Prowl knows it’s a symptom of having to fight against what might be considered one’s kin.

If they don’t see the Decepticons as ‘other’, they might not be able to label them as ‘enemy’. They might not pull the trigger. They might not win the war. It’s a sacrifice they’ve made to ensure victory.

It’s what a soldier has to do.

“Let’s not waste any time,” Optimus says once the door closes and locks with a familiar tri-tone beep. It’s the most secure, privacy screen they can activate on the Ark-22, and Prowl immediately straightens at the sound of it. “Ratchet, please share your report with everyone else.”

Ratchet, for his part, looks exhausted, like he hasn’t recharged since he began treating Drift. His optics are dim, his paint dull, and there’s a deep set to his shoulders, as though he can’t spare the energy to keep them squared.

He tosses a datapad to the table, braces one elbow on the surface and rubs his face with the other hand. “It’s a fragging mess of a situation, Optimus,” Ratchet says, and his voice is riddled with static, his field a limping pulse of fatigue and dismay. “Near as I can tell, Drift’s in stasis because he has two conflicting codeclusters, neither of which he consented to.”

Red Alert works his jaw. “I’m sorry, Ratchet,” he says, lifting a hand, his lips pulling into a severe frown. “I need you to explain further. What do you mean?”

Ratchet’s free hand taps the datapad. “One of the code clusters is trying to rewrite his neural pathways to remove violent and self-destructive impulses while encouraging pacifism.” He shifts his hand, tapping another datapad. “The other, much older code cluster rewrote his neural pathways to promote savagery, to dissuade his conscience from accepting a peaceful resolution, and to amp his paranoia and violent tendencies.”

“I don’t understand,” Ultra Magnus says, his face crinkling into confusion. “Are you saying the Decepticons forced coding uploads into their soldiers to make them more violent?”

“I almost wish I were.” Ratchet sighs again and shutters his optics, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The older clusters were created by a replicating virus, one with an Autobot imprint in the source code. And it predates what we all consider the first volley of open war.”

“And the newer cluster?” Optimus asks, his voice soft and grave, not that Prowl doesn’t feel the same sadness.

Ratchet rolls his shoulders. “It coincides with Drift’s defection to the Autobots, according to Perceptor. I’d like to have a talk with that so-called Circle of Light about their recruitment methods because I’m not convinced Deadlock had much of a choice in the matter.” His scowl could have qualified as laserfire.

“Wait a slagging minute,” Ironhide snaps, his vents huffing a burst of hot air into the room. “Are ya tellin’ me that the Senate infected the ‘Cons with a virus before we officially went to war?”

“So it would seem,” Prowl says, and is alarmed to find himself trembling, the ramifications of the revelation almost too much to contemplate. “It makes an alarming amount of sense.”

“Does it?” Red Alert asks.

Ultra Magnus sighs and scrubs his forehead, looking deeply troubled. “Yes, it does. If the Decepticons are too violent, too irrational, they lose any credibility with the general public while bolstering support for the Senate. Their initial goals get lost in the madness, leaving the Senate free to emerge as the more reasonable leadership.”

“Does it even matter?” Ironhide demands and he sits back in his chair, loudly scraping the wheels over the floor. “It doesn’t mean they ain’t to blame for all the Autobots they’ve killed. It doesn’t change who they are, right?”

Ratchet shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t,” he says, like it hurts him to admit it. “But it does make them unreasonable, unwilling to consider peace or a treaty, unwilling to surrender when it might benefit them the most.” He pauses, draws in a shuddering breath. “They’ll fight to the last spark because of this. There’s no hope for a peaceful end to the war.”

“You’re sure of this?” Ultra Magnus asks.

“Unfortunately.” Ratchet sighs, and his fatigue settles around him like an inescapable mantle. “This coding is insidious. It’s subtle, and it’s brilliant, and I’d like to meet the mech who wrote it, both to shake their hand, and to wring their neck.”

Red Alert shakes his head, slow and disbelieving. “That the Senate would stoop so low...” His lips press in a thin line before he looks at all of them. “I am not a Decepticon. I never considered joining the Decepticons. But that does not mean I was not aware of the initial reasons why they fought or their plight. This... this is...”

He stutters into silence, clearly at a loss for words. Prowl feels much the same way. He believes in the Autobot cause. He believes the part they play in the war is necessary. At times, he even believes in victory at any cost.

Jazz’s engine revs. “I still don’t see what the big deal is. It’s not like the coding made them declare war. It didn’t build their army, and it sure as frag didn’t tell them to bomb Praxus.” His armor flutters, anger writ across his features. “Why does it fragging matter?

“Because we are better than this,” Optimus says, and the conviction in his voice makes Prowl shiver. He bends his full attention to their Prime, who rises to his feet, who braces his hands on the table and pins them all with a commanding look. “We took up arms against the Decepticons to defend ourselves. To protect those who couldn’t. We did not start this fight to slaughter them.”

Prowl cycles a ventilation. “The war began for genuine reasons,” he says, much more quietly than Optimus, but he gains everyone’s attention nonetheless. “This virus has corrupted the Decepticons. Has taken away their will, their right to choose. We are the worst of hypocrites if we use it to our advantage.”

“It’s not the way I want to win this war.” Optimus glances at Jazz, and something unspoken passes between them -- echoes of an argument Prowl knows they’ve had before. “It’s unconscionable that they have had their will subverted. I cannot, in good conscience, take advantage of it any longer.”

Cybertronians don’t need to breathe as most organics do, but nonetheless, Optimus’ declaration seems to take all the air from the room, his words like a physical blow.

Ultra Magnus folds his hands over a datapad. “What do you intend to do, sir?”

“Set things right,” Optimus says, firm and unyielding. He shifts his attention to Red Alert, who automatically straightens under the weight of his gaze. “Put security measures in place, then inform Blaster to make a courtesy call to the Decepticons. You know the code to use.”

Red Alert’s optics widen enormously. “Sir, you can’t think Megatron will believe--”

“He most likely will not, but the very least I can do is try,” Optimus’ tone gentles, though it carries the same gravitas. “We will prepare the information we have and send it to him, let him draw his own conclusions.”

Ratchet scrubs at his forehead. “It might bolster their anger, given the context of this virus. It might infuriate them into an irrational attack.”

“We will deal with the consequences as they arise.” Optimus vents long and slow, while Prowl drags a datapad closer and starts to furiously make notes and potential plans for Decepticon retaliation. “We can move forward with a clear conscience after the attempt has been made. Are we in accord?”

No one argues. Perhaps because no one dares.

Prowl can read the hesitation in the room, the apprehension. It’s obvious they all have their concerns, but when it comes down to it, they serve under Optimus for a reason. They believe in Optimus, more than they believe in the office of the Prime.

“I’ll arrange to make contact at once,” Red Alert says.

“And me and ‘Hide can prepare for possible retaliation,” Jazz adds, but there’s a iciness to his tone, a tightness to his jaw, that suggests Jazz will bring his protests to Optimus later. Privately.

“With any luck, we are looking at a possible end to the war, rather than an extension of it,” Optimus says. “Thank you everyone, for your support in this.”

Prowl cycles a long, steadying ventilation. He doesn’t know how this is going to end. He’s too pragmatic for hope, but he wants to believe because Optimus believes.

He wants the war to be over, he truly does, but never in a million years, would he have thought this would be the reason why.

***


	3. Chapter 3

No matter how long Megatron spends glaring at the map, the circumstances don’t change. He has no idea where the Ark-22 is hiding. He can’t find the bulk of the Autobot forces. He can’t return to Cybertron.

The war, such as it is, has reached a stalemate. It’s less a war than it is a series of skirmishes where neither faction gains the upper hand.

His circuits itch to fight. It gnaws on him, this lack of forward progress, and the carcass of Cybertron they’ve left behind speaks of a lack of victory.

“Megatron.”

“I asked not to be disturbed,” Megatron says, though it’s with less venom than he might have offered another of his subordinates -- like Starscream.

“This, you must see,” Soundwave says, unintimidated, and he steps completely into the tactical room, the door closing and locking behind him. There’s a dull, swamping noise, the sound of a privacy screen being raised.

Megatron cycles his optics and lifts his head. There is one mech he trusts to bring him pertinent data, and Soundwave is currently handing him a datapad.

“What is it?”

“Optimus Prime,” Soundwave says. The single designation is enough to make both fire and ice sluice through Megatron’s lines. “He wishes to parlay. He offers truth.”

Megatron stares at his third in command, at the only mech he trusts to the core of his spark. “You’ve confirmed his intentions?”

“Affirmative.”

“What absurd terms does he offer this time?” Megatron mutters, and powers on the datapad, giving the contents a quick skim.

No terms. None. Optimus doesn’t offer surrender, but a truce on both sides, an agreement to lay down arms and work -- together -- toward a peaceful resolution. Neither faction will claim victory. Instead, they will agree to serve the best interest of Cybertron.

It’s nothing Megatron has not been offered before, but there is something new. There is a personal message attached to the parlay, addressed to Megatron alone.

Megatron sinks into the nearest chair as he begins to read, and the words trickle through his processor, leaving brimstone in their wake. His hands tremble. His engine revs violently, and only Soundwave’s hand on his shoulder is a comforting weight in the wake of the abrupt outrage and ire.

“You’ve read this?” Megatron asks, though it is partly rhetorical. He knows very well Soundwave has already read the contents, scanned every inch, catalogued and categorized the words within.

“Personal coding scan confirms presence of virus, timestamped pre-war,” Soundwave says, and though he speaks in a monotone, there’s a tightness to it, to the way he grips Megatron’s shoulder, that speaks of his own anger. “Permission to scan others?”

Megatron bows his head, shutters his optics. He draws vent after vent, trying to master the rising urge to destroy, to sweep the table clear of the battlemaps, to order an immediate retaliation against the Autobots. He doesn’t know if the urge is his own, and that thought frightens him the most.

How much of his actions have been his choice? How many have been driven by the treacherous code?

“Get their consent first,” Megatron grits out, and his knuckles creak as he grips the datapad tighter and tighter. “Have Shockwave look at this as well. I want confirmation of what Optimus Prime is saying before I make a decision about it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Soundwave shifts to draw away, but Megatron catches his hand before he goes too far. He tangles their fingers together, squeezing Soundwave’s hand.

“If this proves true, if this virus has been affecting us all along…” he trails off, unable to voice the worries and the possibilities unspooling in his mind like an angry tide.

How many lives could have been saved? How many Decepticons have died because the virus spurred him into irrational actions, spurred him to the death rather than a reasonable cease-fire?

Megatron bows his head. "We will, as the war drags on, be committing suicide. We won't stop. We won't know how to stop."

"Outcome can be avoided."

"By brokering a peace, you mean." Megatron cycles a vent.

Soundwave has never been one to oppose Megatron's plans aloud. He takes his concerns to the privacy of their shared berth, the only place Megatron allows himself to appear weak. Where he briefly considers such things as treaties and cease-fires and concessions.

"Is that not a failure?" Megatron asks. "I'd be bending my knee, conceding to the Autobots. I'd have betrayed the very core of what the Decepticons have fought to accomplish."

"Negative." Soundwave's denial is firm, unyielding, nearly fierce for it. "Choosing life is not failure. Optimus reasonable. Attempt can be made. Violence, after, if terms untenable."

Megatron squeezes Soundwave's hand, drawing on the strength he offers. There's a boiling inside of him, a yawing need to lift his fusion cannon and rage until there is nothing left but ashes and destruction around him. There's a screaming, that Autobots can't be trusted, that they'll never concede, they'll never allow the Decepticons freedom.

He doesn't know if it's his own fears speaking to him, or the push of the virus.

"What is the purpose," Soundwave says after a moment, and his field surrounds Megatron with warmth, with logic, with peace and calm, Megatron’s saving grace through a long, long war. "Why the fight? What is the desire?"

"To choose for ourselves," Megatron murmurs. He shoves away the rage, reaches for reason, the tenets he nestles close to his spark. "To be more than our frame, our function, our caste. To be seen as individuals, as worthy. To live."

"Answer already known." Soundwave rests his other hand on Megatron's shoulder, the bulk of him radiant against Megatron's back.

Yes. Megatron supposes it is.

"We can't win the war with this virus. At least, not in a way that matters," Megatron observes aloud. Because the virus will encourage them to slaughter, and slaughter they will, until every last Autobot soaks the ground with their energon.

What will be left? Who will be left? Will it be a victory worth having?

_Yes_ , a voice whispers, suspiciously like his own, and thirsty for spilled energon. _They deserve to perish. Suffer no Autobot to live. They have hurt, and they have crushed, and it is their fault. Kill them all._

Megatron cycles a ventilation.

Now that he knows to listen for it, he can hear the whispers. The warnings, in his own voice, speaking to an existent threat, swaying him away from a peaceful course of action.

He hadn't realized, until now, how focused he'd been on defeating the Autobots, how he'd convinced himself their death was the solution. It had never been the point.

They're already exiled from Cybertron. They've destroyed their home, their planet, leaving it a wasteland. What's left to fight for, at this point?

But to call a truce! It rankles deep inside, the idea of laying down arms, of walking beside Autobots without hurting them. Of compromise! Megatron doesn't know if the disgust he feels is his own, or a result of the virus.

"I will lose the support of the troops, bending my knee to a cease-fire," Megatron mutters with a loathing he's quite sure is his own.

He wants to writhe in his chair, to roar at the sky. The indignity, the injustice! How very like the Autobots to resort to such underhanded tactics.

Soundwave’s field rests on his, warm and comforting. “Fault not yours,” he murmurs. “Trust in Megatron will remain absolute. This I know.”

“Would that I had your confidence.” Megatron presses a kiss to Soundwave’s hand and lets him go. “Disseminate the information. We’ll debate the results later. Optimus can wait for a reply.”

“Agreed.” Soundwave lingers long enough to offer a caress via his field, and then he’s gone, leaving Megatron with battle maps he may not use, and a knowledge which sits heavy and life-altering in his processor.

~

Starscream seethes.

He takes the information Soundwave gives him, and he immediately sets about examining his own coding, locating the tainted files in an instant, the corrupting twist of the virus throughout his core processing. He wants to rip it out with fangs and talons and every weapon he carries, but he knows this is going to take a more delicate touch. The virus is too tightly ingrained in him.

He doesn’t give Skywarp and Thundercracker a choice -- not that either of them protest.

It’s surprising, because Thundercracker has been infected but Skywarp has not. They’ve both plugged into Nemesis at some point. Starscream doesn’t understand what saved Skywarp from the virus.

It’s a complication that demands further investigation. It’s also proof that the virus is genuine. It’s a present threat.

It changes things.

Starscream does not like Autobots. He does not trust Autobots. For the most part, save a select few, Autobots are predictable in their uprighteousness. Starscream does not, for a single moment, believe the existence of the virus is a plot planted by the venerable Optimus Prime.

He does believe Prime’s offer of a cease-fire is genune.

He’s not so certain the cease-fire will stand any longer than the ones before. He can feel it within him, burning and surging like a slagpit. He wants to do damage; he wants to rage against the machine. He wants to take this volcanic fury and bend it upon the Autobots, make them pay for the injustice, the terrible violation of his core self.

He works himself into a wrathful froth by the time he stomps to the conference room to join the rest of the command team. Outrage swirls around him like a tangible weight, and he steps into a room stuffed full of it.

Shockwave is stiff, furious, his optic narrowed to a thin line. Soundwave is an emotionless automaton, per the usual, and Megatron’s back is to them, his hands clasped, his gaze distant as he stares at viewscreen.

It’s waiting to connect, perhaps to Optimus Prime and the Autobots.

The door closes behind Starscream. It locks and activates a privacy screen. There are only four of them in here, and Starscream supposes that makes sense. This is a topic that can’t be shared with the general Decepticons.

“It is legitimate,” Shockwave says, without waiting for Megatron to call the meeting to order. "The virus is disseminated among those Decepticons holding a leadership post, and while the length of time it has rooted itself varies based upon promotions, the origin remains the same -- the Nemesis, pre-first volley."

Starscream's wings flick. "Well," he says as the fields in the small room turn murderous in near unison, as if their aggression and anger feeds into itself, turning them all into a rising tide of outrage. "What are we going to do about it?"

"I need more time to further study the ramifications and reach of the virus," Shockwave intones, with only the barest echoes of interest in his vocals. "However, while retaliation may be our standard reaction to such an attack, the existence of the virus suggests it may not be the wisest course of action."

Starscream presses his lips together. Trust Shockwave to offer multiple sentences when a few words would have sufficed.

"Optimus Prime presently wary of attack," Soundwave says without looking up from the communications console. "Understands possible ramifications of information."

"Am I the only one considering the possibility of using this to our advantage?" Starscream asks before Shockwave can speak again, boring them all.

Megatron's optics narrow. "What do you mean?"

Starscream flicks a hand dismissively. "Optimus is a soft-spark. No doubt he sent this datapad to us because he feels guilty about it. That gives us enormous bargaining power."

"To what end?" Shockwave asks.

"To the end where we stop throwing ourselves at the Autobots to the inevitable extinction of the Cybertronian race and consider a cease-fire," Starscream all but snaps, his wings jerking upright at the condescension in Shockwave's tone. "Which, by the way, is the complete opposite of what the virus wants from us. I, for one, am not interested in doing the Senate's work for them."

Starscream is tired.

This is an endless wall they batter against, and he’s starting to see there’s only one true path on the other side. A path where everyone is dead, no one has won, and Cybertron rusts into oblivion, with the only story the universe knows, is how Cybertron consumed itself and took billions of innocent lives with it.

Starscream doesn’t want that to be their legacy.

He braces himself for Megatron’s derision. He knows, before the words leave his lips, Megatron will brand him a coward. They’ll argue. They’ll fight. Starscream will wake in the medical bay again, under Hook’s tender mercies, and nothing will have changed.

Maybe he can blame the virus for that as well.

“It was too easy to forget why we started fighting in the first place,” Megatron says, and there’s a weight to his vocals, a gravity which surprises Starscream. He turns to face them, and his expression is solemn.

There’s not a hint of anger when he looks at Starscream. If anything, he seems to echo Starscream’s fatigue, though his armor rattles against his protoform, as if he’s fighting an internal battle and struggling to emerge triumphant.

“Maybe we can blame the virus, or maybe we should blame ourselves,” Megatron continues. “It was easy to let the virus take hold because we were angry, and we were hurt, and we saw no recourse but to lash out. We started for all the right reasons.” He pauses, cycles a ventilation, and there it is, the flash of anger, but it’s not directed at Starscream. “There’s a point we could have stopped. We didn’t. I don’t want to make that same mistake.”

Starscream almost gapes. Is Megatron agreeing with him? Has the discovery of the virus fried his processor?

“You wish to broker a treaty with the Autobots?” Shockwave asks, and while his tone doesn’t betray any emotion, there is surprise in the way he looks at Megatron and shifts in his seat.

Megatron lifts his chin, bristling like he expects a fight. “A truce is in everyone’s best interest, but only if the terms are acceptable. I won’t lay down arms and surrender, and I won’t let Optimus dictate our behavior.”

“Action acceptable,” Soundwave says, but Starscream would have guessed as much. Soundwave never disagrees with Megatron. At least, not where anyone else can hear. “Cease-fire preferred.”

Starscream crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “I want a cure for the virus.”

“It’s going to require a united effort,” Shockwave drones, and if he has any plans to protest the idea of peace, there’s no sign of it. “What the Autobots lack in coding specialists, I can fulfill, but I am not Ratchet. Application and dissemination will be his specialty.”

Starscream almost can’t believe his audials. Not only has his suggestion been heard, but it’s been accepted.

Maybe the virus has friend his own processor.

“Very well. I will make it a point of discussion,” Megatron says, the most reasonable Starscream has ever heard him. It makes pride bloom in his spark. Pride and relief and maybe, something that almost feels like hope.

Maybe they don’t all have to die. Maybe there’s an end to this. Maybe, maybe.

“Soundwave, contact the Autobots. Inform them I wish to discuss a truce.”

~

It is surprisingly easy, for all that Megatron expects a fight.

The Nemesis has been drifting for so long, aimless without a present battle, that the idea of discussing a cease-fire with the Autobots is almost as exciting as an outright war. Megatron has kept the truth of the virus to his closest confidantes, for fear of starting a run of bloodlust through his troops. He’s done his best to frame the potential truce as a benefit to the Decepticon cause.

While there have been some grumblings, trust in Megatron’s leadership remains. For now. He supposes the terms of the truce will dictate how far his Decepticons will follow him.

They agree to meet on neutral ground. They take short-range shuttles to an abandoned moon orbiting an equally abandoned planet, both of which are inhospitable to purely organic life, save for the single-celled organisms writhing about beneath the surface. Perhaps in a million years, they will evolve into something greater.

If that dying sun doesn’t collapse on them first.

“Don’t bother apologizing,” Megatron says, to begin the meeting, because he can read the guilt in Optimus’ optics as surely as he can read the warning and promise of violence in Optimus’ pet saboteur. “It comes as no surprise to any of us that your precious Senate was so corrupt.”

“Makes me regret blowing them to bits even less ,” Starscream drawls as he pretends to examine his talontips as though the shed energon of the Senators still visibly stains them. “Not that I ever regretted it.”

“It’s impolite to be proud of one’s murderous actions during a parlay,” Prowl says in a tight tone, but Optimus lifts a hand, and Prowl immediately quiets. He shuffles his datapads, offering an icy stare over the top of them.

Megatron ignores him.

“What’s impolite is what your predecessors have done to us,” Starscream says, and his wings curve sharply upward. “Tell us your terms so we can rip them apart.”

Prowl twitches.

Megatron swallows a sigh. The tension in the room is suffocating, and it’s making his defensive protocols glitch. “We will not be announcing a defeat.”

“We won’t ask you to either,” Optimus says, and his tone is soothing, apologetic even. “We want to agree to lay down arms immediately, to halt all aggressive actions toward one another, and to establish a neutral area where experts from both factions can begin working on an anti-viral solution.”

“Reasonable terms,” Soundwave says. “Caveats?”

Optimus shakes his head. “None. It’s a matter of trust.” He looks at Megatron then, catching his optics in a gaze Megatron can’t seem to tear away from. “Words cannot express how abhorrent I find such a virus. If there is any hope to a peaceful resolution to this war, it must happen now, before it’s too late.”

_Lies_ , that insidious voice whispers to him. _Lies and manipulations. Optimus is not to be trusted. He wears the brand of your oppressors._

_Kill him._

_Kill him now._

_Kill him while you still draw breath._

Megatron cycles a ventilation. He draws his hands into fists before loosening them again. The voice has become more insistent, the longer he considers a cease-fire and peace and laying down arms. It’s as if the virus is doubling down on itself, determined to set him back on a violent course. He can recognize it now, but that is only half the solution.

Worse that the virus whispers truths the deepest part of his spark already fears.

“We will agree to lay down arms,” Megatron says, carefully choosing his words and forcing down the anger trying to bubble up inside of him. “We agree to work together.”

“Really?” Ratchet asks, and there’s something in the way he stares at Starscream, in the flutter of his armor, that suggests a deeper story. “Decepticons aren’t known for their collaboration.”

Starscream smiles, and it’s full of denta, far from friendly. “Neither are you, from what I hear. Thrown any wrenches lately?”

“About as many as you’ve stabbed Megatron in the back,” Ratchet retorts, and his smile echoes Starscream for its cutting nature. “Or are you going to blame that on the virus as well?”

“If this cease-fire results in petty squabbles alone, it will be a miracle,” Shockwave says, and Megatron quietly agrees with him. Though his words have the intended effect. Both Ratchet and Starscream snap their mouths shut, tension vibrating between them.

There is a story there, Megatron is even more sure of it. He’s aware Starscream had attended Iacon’s storied academy on scholarship, and it would have been around the time Ratchet did as well. Perhaps there is more history than Megatron had cared to discover.

“Removal of the virus should be our first priority. In order to do so, we need to understand how it was created and it’s purpose,” Optimus says, likely in a desperate attempt to steer the conversation back on track.

Megatron nods slowly, until the realization pierces the steady background cadence trying to control him. “You intend to return to Cybertron.”

“There’s a fair chance the databases in Iacon hold the information we seek,” Prowl replies with the barest twitch of his wings. “They may even save us the trouble of trying to build an anti-virus from scratch.”

“We’ll work together,” Optimus says. “Autobots and Decepticons, uniting for a common interest, a hope we both share -- the elimination of the virus and the restoration of our home. Is that agreeable?”

It’s subtle, but it’s there, the gnawing of the virus around his reason. He should lift his blaster, should destroy the arrogant Autobots and all they stand for. He should fight until the end. It’s weakness to surrender. It’s weakness to lay down arms.

He’s stronger than his impulses.

The weight of a dozen stares rest on Megatron from all sides. Starscream’s hope, and Soundwave’s encouragement, and Shockwave’s cold regard. The Autobots with their barely hidden sneers, and their distaste, and a few warm bursts of hope.

“Yes,” Megatron says, and he offers Optimus a hand, keeps his tone firm as if to say to everyone present, and the repulsive program within him, that he’s his own mech. “We agree.”

After all, the rest is just detail.

***


	4. Chapter 4

Details are Prowl’s realm of expertise.  
  
It is up to Optimus to broker the peace, and Prowl to bring forth the guidelines for both leaders to sign. Soundwave, apparently, is working on his own version of a treaty, and it’ll be up to them to work together to come to an accord.  
  
Fair enough. Prowl can work with Soundwave.  
  
The Ark-22 hums around him, finally in motion, moving forward rather than drifting around a planet without discernible progress. It’s a bit disconcerting to know the Nemesis is on their heels, trailing them back to Cybertron. It feels a bit like having weapons pointed at one’s back, and only Soundwave’s presence on the Ark-22 brings Prowl some comfort.  
  
Of course, he could have done without shuttling Ratchet over to the Nemesis, but such is the way of trust. Megatron won’t fire upon the Ark while Soundwave is aboard, and the Autobots would never harm Ratchet. It’s a subtle reassurance, if unspoken, in form of a hostage exchange.  
  
He'd sent Sideswipe with Ratchet, because the twins had argued the loudest against allowing Ratchet aboard the Nemesis, but relented when Prowl agreed to send one of them along. Sideswipe was the first to speak up, bare seconds before his brother, and so Sideswipe had gone.  
  
But now Prowl has a sulking Sunstreaker lurking about his office, pouting because he misses his twin. He’s also about his pseudo-caretaker, and has decided that glaring through the wall at Soundwave next door, working hard on his version of the treaty, is his best course of action.  
  
It would be distracting, if Prowl wasn't already used to working around his twins and their eccentricities.  
  
It's better for Ratchet to be aboard the Nemesis anyway. There he can get started researching the virus, determining who is infected versus who isn't, and he has ready access to Shockwave and Starscream’s expertise.  
  
Prowl would have sent Drift along with Ratchet, for treatment's sake, if Perceptor hadn't protested so vehemently. Perceptor doesn’t want Drift anywhere near the Decepticons while he’s unconscious. Apparently, Deadlock had left quite a few grudges in his wake.  
  
This does not surprise Prowl in the least.  
  
"You really think this cease-fire is going to work?" Sunstreaker asks, not for the first time, as he paces back and forth, ignoring the distractions Prowl has already attempted to give him.  
  
"I want to believe it will," Prowl answers without inflection. He understands Sunstreaker's anxiety. He shares it. But he won’t let it distract him. "I can't be the only one tired of war. It will be nice not to worry about you and Sideswipe on the battlefield."  
  
Sunstreaker snorts. "You shouldn't worry anyway. There's no Decepticon out there can kill us."  
  
"Your confidence is the most charming thing about you," Prowl says, with a curl of amusement to the corner of his lips.  
  
"At least you didn't call it arrogance."  
  
Prowl smiles and adds in a clause regarding punishment and judgment of crimes prior to the signing of the treaty. While there are many Decepticons he'd love to put on trial and execute, logically, he knows it's not feasible. To even suggest such a thing would careen them right back into war.  
  
Worse, he knows there are Autobots he'll be protecting with this clause as well. Jazz comes to mind. As do Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, who've committed their share of dark deeds against the Decepticons.  
  
His mail chimes with a new message, so Prowl saves his work and clicks on the blinking icon, which announces Ratchet as the sender. The words are brief, as Ratchet is known to be when he's otherwise occupied.  
  
Only command-level Decepticons have been affected apparently. Ratchet suspects it was designed to seek out certain personnel identifiers. It would make sense. Manipulating the Decepticon army is much easier by targeting the leadership. It's what Prowl would have done.  
  
He tucks away that knowledge and gets back to work. It takes him far too long to realize Sunstreaker has moved into his space and now peers over his shoulder, reading over the treaty terms as Prowl composes them.  
  
“Let me know if you see something you disagree with,” Prowl says, unconsciously leaning into the warmth and comfort of Sunstreaker’s field, though the edges of it radiate unease. Sunstreaker won’t be able to relax until he’s sure his brother and his surrogate caretaker are safely within sight.  
  
“I trust you,” Sunstreaker says. “Optimus trusts you, too. And I think, as much as they might loathe you, the Decepticons know how skilled you are. Negotiation is going to be a piece of oil cake.”  
  
Would that he has Sunstreaker’s confidence. Still, his sensory panels flutter with appreciation for the compliment.  
  
“I’ll be in late tonight,” Prowl says by way of response, though part of him longs to close his workspace down and join Sunstreaker in the berth immediately. It’s rare that he gets a twin to himself. “There’s a lot of work left to do.”  
  
Sunstreaker sweeps his fingers along the topmost edge of Prowl’s sensory panels, making them tingle. “It’s a shortcoming we’ve learned to accept. You’re ours where it counts,” he says with a contemplative hum which makes Prowl’s spark flutter again.  
  
Prowl is not ready to admit how much he likes the sound of their claiming.  
  
“I’ll stay. Keep you company. Promise not to be a distraction,” Sunstreaker murmurs, and it’s almost a purr, in conjunction with the way he torments Prowl’s panels.  
  
“Your promise and your actions do not seem to be aligned,” Prowl points out, and Sunstreaker’s quiet chuckle is music to his audials.  
  
“I am still Sideswipe’s brother, mischief and all,” Sunstreaker hums with a kiss to the very tip of Prowl’s chevron, his ex-vents moist and warm.  
  
Prowl holds himself still to conceal a shiver and grasps for the nearest datapad, only to push it at Sunstreaker, narrowly avoiding his nasal ridge. “You can help, if you’re going to stay,” he says with a tone both twins have learned mean business.  
  
“You are incorrigible,” Sunstreaker says, but it’s with affection. He accepts the datapad and drops into the chair across from Prowl, leaning back to get comfortable. “We still love you anyway.”  
  
Prowl’s insides flutter with warmth, and his sensory panels echo it. He says nothing, but the touch of his field to Sunstreaker’s speaks for itself.  
  


~

  
  
His head aches. His entire frame aches, truth be told, but it's the dull throb in his head that is the most upsetting.  
  
He doesn't want to online his optics. He picks up sounds: the low murmur of conversation, the steady beep of machines, the distant hum of a ship in motion, the familiar rattling whirr of his lover. He's not in his berthroom, but Perceptor is beside him, so it can't be too terrible.  
  
And then he remembers.  
  
Anger. Pain. Fury. Agony.  
  
He'd attacked Whirl. He'd swung at Top Spin.  
  
He'd punched Perceptor.  
  
And then his world had gone dark.  
  
Oh, Primus. What had he done?  
  
Regret echoes in his chassis. He forces his optics to online, despite the pain, because he doesn't deserve comfort right now. He's in a medbay, if an unfamiliar one, and the overhead lights are dim. He's attached to a number of machines, and Perceptor slumps over the edge of the berth next to him, hand tightly clasped with Drift's.  
  
There's no shadow of a dent on his face. Either Drift had managed to hold back, or he's been out long enough for Perceptor to heal.  
  
Of all the mechs he's never wanted to hurt...  
  
Perceptor stirs before Drift has a chance to figure out what he's going to say.  
  
Drift panics, but he's aching and numb all over, unable to do little more than twitch and shift on the berth. Perceptor lifts his head, cycles his optics, and he looks directly at Drift, who braces himself.  
  
"I'm sor--"  
  
"You're online!" Relief gushes in Perceptor's field. He tightly squeezes Drift's hand. "I was starting to think we'd never get you back online."  
  
Drift blinks. "What happened?" he asks, and is alarmed by how staticky his vocalizer sounds. He checks his chronometer but has no frame of reference for how long it's been.  
  
Perceptor rises, only to sit on the edge of the berth, his hip pressing to Drift's. "You have a virus.” He pulls Drift’s hands into his lap, thumbs running over Drift’s knuckles. "It's conflicting with a forced coding upload the Knights gave you. That's what caused your erratic behavior."  
  
"A virus?"  
  
"Yes. One lurking in the Decepticon database, striking anyone who's ever carried a leadership mantle. You can imagine how it was placed there." Perceptor's optics flash with anger, his hands tightening around Drift's, before he smooths it away, burying it, like the war has taught him to do.  
  
Perceptor’s anger is a cold one, building and building beneath the surface, ever plotting for a means to be set loose.  
  
"Autobots?"  
  
Perceptor gives him a thin smile. "Yes and no. It was a plot of the Senate’s, to de-legitimize the Decepticon cause and make them appear more monstrous and feral. Unfortunately, it has worked."  
  
Drift wishes he could be surprised. He presses his lips together, shutters his optics, cycles a ventilation around the rage seeking to rise up and swallow him whole. He's worked very hard to become Drift again, but Deadlock lurks around every corner, waiting to remind him how much easier it was when he ignored his conscience.  
  
"The other coding issue was brought upon by the Knights and while they think of themselves as Neutral, they also see themselves as Autobots." Perceptor cycles a ventilation. "You have had so many of your choices taken from you, Drift. For that, I apologize."  
  
Drift shakes his head, though the motion causes a wave of faint dizziness. "I should be saying sorry," he says. "I hit you. I don't even know why. I just remember being so angry, and the next thing I knew--"  
  
"It's not your fault. I don't blame you for it."  
  
"I blame myself." Drift winces and tries to sit up, though much of his frame doesn't want to respond. He feels half-present, like he's only half-working.  
  
Perceptor grabs the berth controls to raise the upper half of the berth. "You're only conscious because we built a firewall between the virus, the coding, and your personal coding. We have to find a cure to really repair you."  
  
"You'll find it," Drift says, with utmost certainty. Perceptor is the smartest mech he knows, and there’s no one Drift trusts more. "Where are we? What happened?"  
  
Perceptor sits on the berth with him, taking Drift's hand once more. "I had to put you in stasis, and we changed course to the nearest Autobot base, which happened to be the Ark-22. We're in command central's mainbay with--"  
  
"Ratchet," Drift finishes for him, and winces before he can stop himself. That’s a reunion he simultaneously dreads and anticipates. He wonders what Ratchet thinks of what he’s become. "Between the two of you, I'm in good hands."  
  
Perceptor smiles, but it's strained. He's obviously recharged, but it's not been very restful. His field is a frazzled flicker around him, and were he a stronger mech, Drift would wince at the strength of his grip.  
  
"We hope. There's a search party heading into Iacon underground as we speak, to see if anything can be found about the virus. With any luck, they'll find knowledge of an anti-virus."  
  
Drift snorts. "I sincerely doubt the Senate would have had any intentions of curing whoever they infected, but I appreciate the attempt. Is it just me?"  
  
"No." Perceptor finds the far wall abruptly fascinating, his armor clamping tightly to his substructure as if drawing on his defensive protocols. "It's every Decepticon who holds a command post. If not for the conflict in your coding, we might have never known to look for a virus."  
  
The rage rises back up again, a thick mass in the back of his intake. He wants to purge and he wants to scream, and his tanks clench with disgust.  
  
"There were reasons I became a Decepticon," Drift says, speaking low. Hopefully, he's not being monitored. Hopefully, they're not looking for a reason to doubt his defection. "And forced change or not, there are reasons I became an Autobot. Now, I don't know if I was ever given a choice about anything."  
  
Perceptor’s vents sharpen. "That's... fair," he says, like one choosing his words with care. "I can't begin to understand. My life was a lot easier than yours so I'm in no position to comment."  
  
Drift manages a lopsided smile and tugs Perceptor's hand. "Come on. Lie down with me. I'm not mad about that."  
  
"I didn't think you were." Perceptor listens though, carefully manuevering around the wires and things to notch himself next to Drift on the berth, barely fitting in the narrow space. His field is a familiar comfort, and Drift isn’t ashamed to admit how hard he latches on to it.  
  
"I am angry though," Drift says. "I'd have killed over this. If not for you, I might have crossed the lines again."  
  
"The war's on hold," Perceptor offers, one hand resting on Drift's abdomen, thumb stroking a transformation seam. "A cease-fire. It was Megatron's idea even. We might get a treaty out of it."  
  
"And all it took was the Senate stealing our agency. Imagine that." Drift grimaces, the fury boiling fierce and bright inside of him. He hasn't the energy to do anything about it, but by Primus, does he want to. "We should have burned it all to the ground."  
  
Perceptor's hand stills. His ventilations catch on a cycle before picking up rhythm once more. "You think we're beyond saving?"  
  
"I think we've done our level best to destroy each other, long before the war started," Drift answers, truthfully. "Whether it's by crushing the lesser under the Senate's heels or death by war."  
  
Perceptor presses his head against Drift’s, but it’s gentle, as is the way his field offers itself to Drift. “I think there are still good mechs. I think our home is still worth saving.”  
  
It’s weird to hear Perceptor sound so optimistic. But then, it’s weird to be sitting in Ratchet’s medbay with rumors of a cease-fire beyond the doors. There’s a whole lot of weird going on right now.  
  
Maybe Perceptor’s right. Maybe he could use a little more hope.  
  
Besides, there’s definitely one thing Drift still trusts, one beacon of brightness that he found as Deadlock and somehow managed to keep as Drift. There’s one mech in his life he’d fight to keep, one reason to keep moving forward.  
  
He tangles his fingers around Perceptor’s and makes a non-committal noise. “Maybe,” he says, deferring for now. “Tell me more about what’s going on. Since I can’t leave the berth yet, I’m relying on you for all the best gossip.”  
  
Perceptor snorts. “I should get Whirl in here for that, but he’s still smarting over the gash you gave him. Be warned, he might seek revenge.”  
  
“Pfft. I can handle Whirl.”  
  
With Perceptor next to him, there’s nothing Drift can’t handle.  
  


~

  
  
There is no better place to begin their research than Iacon, but standing on the bridge as they sweep over the ruined city is like a punch to the spark. Prowl aches, deep in the core of him, at the devastation they have wrought to a once grand metropolis.  
  
The current state of Cybertron is painful enough. Remembering the burnt husk that is Praxus makes his spark feel raw and agonized all over again. This, somehow, is worse.  
  
Iacon had been the last seat of power for the Autobots, before they were forced to flee the planet. Left behind, Iacon had crumbled, razed to the ground as the Decepticons flew triumphant over the burning remains.  
  
It’s a sobering sight.  
  
The Decepticons, at least, have the decency not to gloat. Perhaps because they’re recalling Kaon’s current state. And Tarn. And Tesarus. And every other city or stronghold the Decepticons had claimed, which the Autobots destroyed.  
  
There is no inch of Cybertron that escaped the war. The open lands are toxic wastes. The once beautiful Sea of Rust is a sludgy slag pit. The crystal forest is a shattered ruin of ash-soaked death. The flora and fauna native to the planet have gone extinct. It’d be a miracle to find Cybertron habitable at all.  
  
They coordinate with the Nemesis and find a place to land, on the outskirts of Iacon, where a battle destroyed the outer rings of the city into a flat collapse, so terrible it sank below the surface, into the underlevels.  
  
“It should be stable,” Hound tells them. “Enough.”  
  
There’s no better option.  
  
They land, the Ark first as it’s heavier, and then the Nemesis nearby. They hold their collective vents, but while Cybertron creaks and moans a death rattle around them, it holds their weight. Perhaps they’ve earned a respite from Primus, having returned under a cease-fire.  
  
Prowl volunteers to lead the search party. He takes Sideswipe with him, because they don’t want to leave Ratchet unguarded with so many Decepticons, but the twins were about to brawl over who was spending more time with Prowl.  
  
It is easy enough to swap their assignments.  
  
His team is comprised of volunteers. Soundwave, of course, is the first to lift a hand, and his cassettes intend to scamper through smaller areas the larger mechs might not fit. He’s the one to hack into an unguarded database and find them a map of the underlevels. With Chromedome and Rewind to help sift through the data, and Cyclonus to provide support, they’ve a well-rounded crew.  
  
"Main database interface destroyed," Soundwave informs them as he leads the way to an underlevel access tunnel. "Mainframe only possible source of information."  
  
"And it's deep below the city," Prowl says, for the benefit of anyone in the group who perhaps has never been to Iacon or knows little about the structure of it. "We've far to go, and unstable ground to pass through. Keep your optics open. Who knows what lurks down here."  
  
It's not only sentient defenses that are a concern, but automatic defenses running on auxilliary power, last set to attack anything that comes near.  
  
"Whatever it is, we can handle it," says Frenzy, or Rumble, Prowl has never been sure which is which. He turns to his brother and they bump fists with matching smirks of glee.  
  
"Ravage to take point," Soundwave says as he releases his feline cassette and the dark shape lopes into the tunnel ahead of them. Prowl bites his glossa on a rebuttal.  
  
This is meant to be a joint effort, after all, and it’s not his place to tell Soundwave what he should do with his subordinates.  
  
"I will bring up the rear," Cyclonus offers, and there's something reassuring about the dour mech watching their backs. Cyclonus is a creature of honor, which is something in short supply from the Decepticons.  
  
They begin their descent. Sideswipe stays close enough to be an appropriate defense, without being obnoxious about it. As much as he and his brother tease and play, they are the best at what they do. They know when it's time to be serious.  
  
Prowl has always admired that about them.  
  
It takes hours.  
  
Down here, lighting is minimal. Walkways are rusted ruins. They have to find alternate routes around places where ordinance has destroyed the tunnels. At one point, Ravage warns them of a hibernating nest of Insecticons, and they change course rather than fight.  
  
It's eerily silent, lacking even the ambient hum of a living planet, albeit one in stasis. Metal creaks and groans beneath their weight. Conversation is minimal, whether because they don't trust each other, or because it feels like they shouldn't joke while traversing what amounts to an enormous corpse.  
  
Down, down, down they go.  
  
Prowl is not a Seeker, but he still twitches at the weight of Cybertron above them. At least five levels of metal and equipment and a metropolis on top of that. It's hard to ventilate, the air heavy and cold, damp even. There's a sour tang in the air, like rotting energon and fluids.  
  
When they find the mainframe, Prowl's not the only one showing visible signs of relief. The defense systems are inactive, granting them access with only a few quick hacks on Soundwave's part.  
  
"Emergency power only," Soundwave observes as the doors creak open and they step into the humming quiet of the mainframe, little orange and red lights twinkling in dim corners and the ceiling.  
  
"We'll have to plug in directly," Rewind says as he moves to the nearest console and starts jabbing at buttons. "Power the search with our own systems. We'll have to be quick. Cable up if we have to."  
  
"Affirmative," Soundwave says and moves to another access console, cables already extending from his arms to sink into the visible ports.  
  
"Now for the boring part," Sideswipe says as he leans up against the console Prowl chooses to start his own search.  
  
Prowl's lips twitch toward a smile as he sinks a single cable into the access port. "You volunteered for this."  
  
"Yeah, because I was tired of Sunny getting all the snuggle time." Sideswipe snorts and crosses his arms, affecting a pose of preparedness that makes him intensely attractive. And he knows it.  
  
Prowl won't let himself be distracted.  
  
"Not much time for that here," Prowl murmurs as he slides into the database, only allowing ten percent of his concentration to be devoted to Sideswipe. He keeps a weather optic on his energy levels as well. He'd hate to push himself too far and collapse.  
  
"This is good, too," Sideswipe says with a shrug. He glances toward Soundwave, the cassettes, Cyclonus. "Feels weird to be so close to something with a purple badge but not try to kill it."  
  
Prowl hums a noncommittal note. "I imagine they feel the same way."  
  
Sideswipe chuckles. "Yeah. You're probably right." He tilts his head, optics narrowing. "How long do you think this is going to take?"  
  
"Longer than you'd like, and hopefully, before we run out of energon."  
  
"That won't happen."  
  
Prowl spares a moment to offer him a small smile. "From your mouth to Primus' audials, as Kup would say." He bends his focus back to the database, pulling up the operating system and a search. Though it's hard to know where to start.  
  
Sideswipe chuckles.  
  
For a moment, it's quiet. Just the sound of Chromedome pacing behind Rewind, Soundwave's twins scrapping in a corner, the soft whirr of cooling fans and vents as the three researchers scan billions of terrabytes of data for a drop in the sea.  
  
"Perimeter's clear," Cyclonus announces occasionally before he ventures out again, keeping a continuous patrol with Ravage a dark shadow loping ahead of him.  
  
"Sunny says he's pretty sure Ratchet and Starscream are flirting," Sideswipe says, offhand, talking for the sake of talking. "Which means I wasn't imagining things."  
  
"It's interesting you can still reach each other, given the distance," Prowl comments.  
  
"We're special that way."  
  
Prowl's lips twitch into another smile. "In other ways, too."  
  
"Awww, Prowl. Now why you have to go and be charming at a time I can't do anything about it?" Sideswipe's lower lip juts out in a playful pout. "You're a tease. You're worse than Jazz."  
  
Prowl spares a second to give Sideswipe a look. "No one is worse than Jazz."  
  
"It depends on the situation."  
  
Prowl chuckles before he makes himself bend his focus back to his duty. He's found his way into the Enforcer database and unlocked an access code that should let him venture further. "Does Sunstreaker seem disturbed by the notion?"  
  
"We've been saying forever Ratch needs someone to look after him. Figures it'd be someone like Screamer. "  
  
"What makes you say that?"  
  
Sideswipe's weight shifts, his expression turned thoughtful, as though he's tapping into that intelligence he often tries to hide, so others will underestimate him. "They're both stubborn and snarky. Won't take slag from each other. Got a lot in common." He rolls his shoulders again. "Makes sense to me."  
  
He supposes it does.  
  
"Prowl. I've found something." Rewind's voice cuts into the conversation.  
  
Prowl pauses his search and disengages from the console. Behind him, Rewind's face is reflected in the glow of a monitor, and Chromedome is already cabled up to him, offering a secondary power source for the minibot.  
  
"It's a program called DIVIDE. It talks about creating and disseminating a virus that sounds a lot like the one we found," Rewind says, his fingers flying across the keys as images flash across the monitor, almost faster than Prowl can perceive. "It was ordered into use by the Senate -- majority vote -- and planted at the onset of the war."  
  
"Send that file to me." Prowl peers over Rewind's shoulder, anger building inside of him. He should have known the Senate would do something so vile.  
  
"There are linked files, too. You want those?" Rewind asks.  
  
"Anything pertaining to DIVIDE. Anything you think we might use," Prowl confirms. He catches Chromedome's gaze with a nod of gratitude. "Don't drain either of you to empty."  
  
Chromedome rests a hand on Rewind’s shoulder as the file pings Prowl’s inbox. “Don’t worry. That won’t happen.”  
  
“Good.” Prowl returns to his own console, thoughts spinning inward, bending upon the data Rewind sent to him.  
  
There are indications some of the information has been redacted, but Rewind has already restored the files to their original condition. Majority Leader Senator Highline had been the one to order the dissemination of the virus, and that task had been given to a loyal Autobot designated Crossflex. He’d joined the Decepticons under false pretenses, found his way to their main database before it earned the designation ‘Nemesis’ and uploaded DIVIDE.  
  
What happened to him after that is a mystery. Possibly the Senate didn’t care. Crossflex was supposed to return to the Autobots, but there’s no record of it. That his actions hadn’t been uncovered suggested he wasn’t caught by the Decepticons. Prowl supposes he could have fled the war entirely. He might have stayed a Decepticon, working as an infiltrator, until he offlined in some battle.  
  
Jazz might know more. He has a keener processor for understanding how Special Ops mechs might behave under certain situations.  
  
“What is it?” Sideswipe asks, leaning against the console beside him. He nudges Prowl with an elbow, and presses warmth into the brief moment of contact.  
  
Prowl shakes his head. “An infiltrator planted the virus. There’s no indication of his whereabouts afterward. It’s just a point of curiosity.”  
  
“Huh. What else?”  
  
Prowl peels through more layers, clumps upon clumps of legalese and jargon and scientific babbling he’ll have to tumble into Perceptor or Wheeljack’s hands if he hopes to make sense of it. Perhaps they can find the cure buried in the creation process.  
  
“The virus is designed to seek out Decepticon leadership, a rather efficient tactic,” Prowl muses aloud, less to Sideswipe than he is speaking in general. “It buried itself in their mainframe and was made to look like innocent code. Daily security sweeps would have never found it.”  
  
Or at least, he assumes Nemesis performs a daily sweep. Teletraan does and most advanced AIs are built from the same basic coding. Decepticons are also far more suspicious than Autobots. Megatron in particular, knowing of Jazz’s existence, would be especially wary.  
  
“It’s amazing no one found it after so long,” Sideswipe says.  
  
Prowl’s sensory panels flick. “We might have never discovered it existed, if not for Drift.” His spark squeezes into a ball of disappointment, and he sincerely hopes this truce rings permanent.  
  
“I’m running into something else,” Rewind says, again capturing Prowl’s attention. “While the virus was ordered into use by Senator Highline, Project Cipher designed its coding and formulated the dissemination plan.”  
  
“Project Cipher of defense department origin,” Soundwave speaks up from his console. “Activating files now.”  
  
“What is Project Cipher?” Prowl asks. The designation is unfamiliar to him, though Rewind is right, it’s mentioned several times in the DIVIDE files. It’s tagged in the system as a related entry.  
  
“Not what. Who,” Rewind says.  
  
“Sparked on 20211.08.30,” Soundwave fills in, and Prowl goes still. “Praxus. The Helix Gardens bloom. Given an Enforcer frame.”  
  
A low sound of static spills from Prowl’s mouth before he can stop it. He storms up to Rewind’s side. “That file. Send it to me now.”  
  
“Prowl?” Concern radiates from Sideswipe’s direction, but Prowl shakes it off.  
  
“You’re sure of that sparkdate, Soundwave?” Prowl asks as the file pings, and he immediately opens it.  
  
“Affirmative.” Soundwave pauses, and there’s unease in the hesitation. “Project Cipher designated battle computer, designed to compute probabilities and outcomes for inputted information, specific to war effort.”  
  
It’s getting harder to ventilate.  
  
“It was very, very powerful software, akin to Teletraan or Nemesis,” Rewind adds, but his voice sounds like it’s coming from a distance, through a dark tunnel without a light at the end. “They used it for all sorts of things, but its main purpose was to devise a plan of action against the Decepticons. They chose to use DIVIDE because Cipher gave them a positive result.”  
  
“Wait.” Sideswipe stands straighter and frowns, his gaze darting between Prowl and Soundwave. “You said it’s a program, and you said it’s a person. Which one is it?”  
  
“Both.” Soundwave disengages from the console and briefly sways as he turns around, both Frenzy and Rumble reaching up to steady their carrier. “Program given a frame for ease of transportation, and a spark to sustain the energy requirements.”  
  
Prowl’s hands shake as he reviews the files. He doesn’t need to hear Rewind’s follow-up reply to know what it’s going to be.  
  
He recognizes that spark-date. He recognizes the spark location, and the frame build, and the processor model. He’s familiar with the software.  
  
“They designated the subject Battleship, but later changed his designation,” Rewind says.  
  
“To Prowl,” Prowl finishes, and there’s a cold dread in the pit of his tanks. It’s like his spark -- his power source apparently -- has shrank into a tiny ball and buried itself deep for sheer self-preservation.  
  
“What? That’s ridiculous,” Sideswipe sputters. “You’re not a machine.”  
  
Prowl works his intake. “According to this, I am.” So much of it matches his service record. How in the bombing of Praxus, they’d evacuated him to Iacon. He’d suffered a blow to the head that prompted a long stint in medbay and damaged his memory core. His escort had been killed in the attack.  
  
He woke in a medical center with fractured memories and a clear directive -- to offer his services to the Autobots. To help win the war.  
  
No wonder he doesn’t have fond memories of the other Enforcers he was supposed to have served with. Those memories are false. Implanted. They’d pretended their program was a mech to keep it safe.  
  
But he’s not.  
  
He’s a machine. A machine powered by a spark, granted, but a machine. One owned by the Senate, created for their purposes.  
  
He supposes he owes Starscream his freedom, since Starscream killed the Senate, but is a machine truly free?  
  
“Prowl?”  
  
He shakes his head, moves away before Sideswipe can embrace him or touch his arm or offer any gentleness. He’s a machine, not a person. He’s a program, not a mech. He’s an emotionless computer, everyone has always said it, and the truth is here, in black and white, in files buried beneath Iacon.  
  
“We have to return to the surface,” Prowl says, his voice coming out distant, mechanical, his processor working while logic spins around him. “We have what we came for.”  
  
He’s moving toward the exit without thinking about it, where Cyclonus lurks with crossed arms and a face empty of emotion. Except he’s not the computer here, Prowl is. Funny how real mechs and pretend mechs can look the same on the outside.  
  
His head hurts. His chest feels tight.  
  
The air down here is too thin and damp to get an easy vent.  
  
“Prowl?”  
  
Someone speaks to him from far away. It’s a familiar voice, if only he could tap into the memory. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter. He’s a machine, like they always claimed him to be. The rumors and the whispers and truth, and Prowl wishes it doesn’t make as much sense as it does.  
  
He’s to blame.  
  
He’s as much to blame as the Senate. This virus. This horrific imposition upon a mech’s free will and sense of self. He’d given them the proof to use it. And they had. Have.  
  
Static dances in Prowl’s periphery. They should reboot him. Off. Back on again. Just like any malfunctioning computer. There’s a queer sensation in his chest. A tightness. A squeeze on his vents. He’s hot, and there are warnings -- overheating, overstimulation. Warning. Warning.  
  
He takes a step. Two. Three. They’re done here. They’ve found the truth. They’ve found the mech to blame.  
  
Four.  
  
Five.  
  
He’s a machine. A tool.  
  
Six.  
  
Darkness.  
  


***


	5. Chapter 5

They bring Prowl to him, unconscious, sensory panels twitching, his field a chaotic frenzy. Ratchet injects him with a sedative, until the tension in Prowl’s armor goes slack, and the twisted pain on his face smooths into a genuine recharge.  
  
“What the frag happened?” he growls, only to carefully gentle his tone when he sees the anguish in Sideswipe’s optics, the way he and Sunstreaker draw together, embracing in view of everyone, pressing their foreheads one to the other.  
  
“An inconvenient truth,” Soundwave replies, without emotion the glitch, and he hands Ratchet a datapad before ghosting out of the room, leaving Ratchet with an unconscious tactician and his twin lovers.  
  
“What the frag is this?” Ratchet demands, waggling the datapad into the air. He’s confused and angry and this situation has been fragged since Perceptor dragged Drift’s twitching frame into Ratchet’s medical bay, and he doesn’t like it.  
  
He doesn’t like it one fragging bit.  
  
“I don’t get it,” Sideswipe says, voice muffled as he folds himself into Sunstreaker’s arms. “The database says Prowl’s just a computer. That they powered some program with a spark to make him.”  
  
“What? That’s ridiculous.” Ratchet slants a look at the sleeping tactician before he flicks on the datapad to see for himself. “That’s not how it works.” He ignores the tiniest niggle of doubt.  
  
Sparks are tricky things. When it comes down to it, as far as they’ve come, they still don’t really understand how sparks work. How sparks make them who they are. How a spark imprints memories and forms emotions. They just don’t know.  
  
“I’m not a medic. I’m just telling you what we found out,” Sideswipe says, and he pulls away from Sunstreaker to drag over a chair closer to Prowl’s medberth. His expression softens as he reaches for one of Prowl’s hands, tangling their fingers together. “I know he’s not a machine.”  
  
“We both know that.” Sunstreaker sits on the edge of Prowl’s berth, for lack of another chair, his hip pressed to Prowl’s. “I don’t know what really happened in the past, but I’m gonna thrash the first person who dares say something bad about Prowl.”  
  
Ratchet sighs and rubs at his temples. “Let’s do some research before either of you go off on a rampage.” The information unspools on the datapad, lines upon lines of text. He supposes he should share it with Perceptor. “I’m going to take a look at this. You two stay here with him. Don’t do anything rash.”  
  
“Who? Us?” Sideswipe’s innocent grin is anything but.  
  
Sunstreaker grunts.  
  
Ratchet supposes that’s as good as he’s going to get.  
  
He leaves them alone -- it’ll be some time before Prowl reboots and wakes -- and steps into a nearby room, where Drift is still aberth and Perceptor perched beside him. They’ve managed a stopgap measure that keeps Drift conscious, and able to ambulate short distances, but too much exertion claws at the firewall they designed.  
  
“I think I’ve had enough of this virus,” Ratchet says by way of announcing himself, and hoping not to walk into some low-energy intimacy like he has before. “This is a fragging mess.”  
  
“It is indeed,” Perceptor agrees in a tart tone. “Good morning, Ratchet. I see you’re in a fine mood.”  
  
“That’s his usual mood,” Drift says with a weary smile. He’d recognized Ratchet immediately upon waking, just as Ratchet had recognized him. “How was the scavenger hunt?”  
  
“Productive.” Ratchet groans as he leans against a console as the only chair is occupied by Perceptor. He holds up the datapad. “We can start on a legitimate cure now, though that means working hand in hand with Decepticons. Present company excluded.”  
  
“I’m not a Decepticon anymore,” Drift says.  
  
Perceptor squeezes his hand. “And we both know how little any of it was your choice.”  
  
An emotion flicks across Drift’s face, too quick for Ratchet to read, before it’s gone again. He suspects this is a discussion they’ve had before. Or maybe argument is the better word.  
  
“Choice,” Drift repeats, a contemplative murmur. “I wonder if I ever had it.”  
  
Ratchet shifts, uncomfortable with the sudden tension in the room. He straightens and hands Perceptor the datapad -- he’ll put it to greater use than Ratchet, and besides, Ratchet has already downloaded the pertinent information he’ll need.  
  
“They’re setting up a neutral facility between the Ark and the Nemesis for us to start working on an anti-virus,” Ratchet explains as Perceptor accepts the datapad with a nod. “Whenever you’re ready, it's pretty easy to find.”  
  
“Starscream will be joining us, I imagine,” Perceptor says, his gaze focused on the datapad, but something pointed in his tone.  
  
Ratchet tries not to bristle, but his armor flicks before he can smooth it down. “He is one of their greatest scientific minds, to hear him say it.”  
  
Drift grins.  
  
Perceptor makes a noncommittal noise. “It will be good to work with him rather than against him, don’t you agree?”  
  
“It’s better not to try killing each other, yeah,” Ratchet says, knowing full well what Perceptor is trying to get at and ignoring him outright, just as he’d ignored Wheeljack’s insinuations. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I still have Prowl to fix.”  
  
He leaves, perhaps impolitely, but they must be used to that by now. Ratchet stopped bothering with politeness after the first decade of war. He’d rather save his energy fore more important things.  
  
Politeness is a waste of time he doesn’t have.  
  


~

  
  
Iacon was beautiful once.  
  
Optimus holds those memories close, both the ones he’s experienced for himself, and the memories the Matrix carries from Primes before him. Iacon had been a glittering, shining metropolis. A grand example of the greatness of Cybertron.  
  
Now it is a wasteland and perhaps rightly so. Iacon was as much an example of the grandness of Cybertron as it was an example of Cybertron’s greatest mistakes. It was a place of waste, of inequality, of smug nobility sneering down at the poor and powerless.  
  
Perhaps it’s better this way. Perhaps it is true that things must be burned to ash in order to start anew. Optimus wonders if change would have ever been wrought with the institutions already in place.  
  
Sometimes, he wonders if Megatron had the right idea.  
  
“You look disturbed, Prime. Having second thoughts already?”  
  
Optimus turns to acknowledge Megatron’s arrival, having expected it. Megatron, like himself, has come alone and unarmed, and it speaks to an enormous trust that they both followed through on their agreements.  
  
Optimus has no doubt Soundwave is somewhere nearby, lurking out of sight, but fully observant of their meeting. Just as Jazz is likely hiding in the shadows, ignoring Optimus’ orders to stay away, unwilling to trust the Decepticons to this extent. It is interesting how both he and Megatron have thirds so invested in their welfare.  
  
Perhaps the rumors of Megatron and Soundwave’s relationship hold some truth to them.  
  
“Yes,” Optimus says, “but not about this.” He tips his head in greeting. “How fare the Decepticons?”  
  
“Confused. Angry. Bitter.” Megatron pauses to grin, sharp and pointed. “Ready for violence. You’re lucky our teams found answers together. Or things might not have gone so well for this cease-fire of yours.”  
  
Yes. Answers.  
  
Optimus thinks briefly of Prowl with a flicker of disquiet. They’d found many answers in the Iaconian database, as well as uncomfortable truths.  
  
“It will take the combined efforts of both our factions to put an end to the virus. You know this.” Optimus folds his hands behind his back, stares out over the ruined landscape. “We’ve already agreed on it, but I have another proposal for you.”  
  
“Do you now.” It’s not a question. Megatron steps up beside him, copies his pose. “And what else would you ask of us, now that you’ve demanded patience?”  
  
Optimus cycles a ventilation. He shutters his optics briefly, remembers Iacon as it was, and looks out at Iacon as it is. “Peace,” he murmurs. “For this cease-fire to be permanent rather than temporary. For our two factions to lay down arms for the sake of ourselves and our planet. To work together to build a new Cybertron where all can live freely without the burdens of our shared past.”  
  
Megatron hums contemplatively.  
  
Optimus knows better than to push. He lets Megatron ruminate, while his own spark spins and dances with a thin thread of hope. He hopes knowledge of the virus makes fighting against the insidious push of it easier. He prays Megatron can see reason, beyond the dark whispers of the Senate’s last weapon.  
  
“I am going to tell you a secret, Prime, only known by one other.” Megatron’s engine slips into an idle, a quiet rumble. “I tire of war. I tire of watching my Decepticons die with nothing to show for it but spilled energon and desolate battlefields. I want the war to be over, but I will not surrender to achieve that.”  
  
By Primus, it’s a chance.  
  
Optimus seizes it.  
  
“No surrender,” he says immediately. “Neither of us concedes defeat. No one wins, but no one loses either. We agree to lay down arms. We agree to work together. We build a treaty that we both unequivocally support, and we both abide by it and defend it.”  
  
Megatron lifts his chin. “You think it’ll be that easy?”  
  
“No. I suspect it’ll be the hardest battle we’ve ever fought.” Optimus allows himself to sigh, to show some of the fatigue in his frame, in his field. “There’s a lot of bitterness, Megatron. A lot of anger. Hatred. Energon has been spilled on both sides. Lives destroyed. All manner of murder and torture and misdeeds.” He pauses to cycle a ventilation, remembering all too well the wreck of a frame Jazz had once dragged back to him, barely functioning. “But if we don’t figure out how to set it aside, the war will continue until there’s no one left to hold a grudge.”  
  
“Until we wipe each other out,” Megatron says.  
  
Optimus inclines his head. He glances at Megatron, but the Decepticon warlord’s gaze is distant, staring off at the far horizon, as though he’s seeing something Optimus isn’t. His hands are balled into fists behind his back, his armor clamped tight and rippling, like he’s holding in a great fury.  
  
Or maybe he’s fighting against the programming which has extended their war for so long. Megatron is strong, perhaps the strongest foe Cybertron will ever encounter. Optimus is counting on that strength now, to overcome the dark whispers.  
  
Megatron growls, but it’s not directed at Optimus. “I did not shake off my chains to condemn my Decepticons to an unwinnable war, and a future of death.” His whole frame shudders in a wave, like he’s casting off fabric. “I’ll have this peace, even if I have to fight for it.”  
  
“I suspect there will be some on both sides who won’t be happy with the idea of laying down arms,” Optimus muses aloud.  
  
“Then they don’t belong in our Cybertron, and I’ll make sure of it.” Megatron turns to look at Optimus at last, and there’s a fire burning in his optics, one Optimus has only ever seen turned on him at the height of battle. “I am the Decepticon commander, and I started this war. It’s on me to end it, and I will fight to my last sparkpulse to ensure a future for my soldiers.”  
  
Optimus bites his glossa.  
  
It’s not up to him to tell Megatron how to treat the Decepticons who won’t surrender. He can’t force his will on their policies. He can only ensure his own.  
  
“We should present as much of a united front as we possibly can,” Optimus says instead, because diplomacy is where he excels, compared to Megatron’s more violent approach. “That’s the best way to combat any pushback we might receive.”  
  
“Agreed.” Megatron pauses for a moment before the fierceness in his optics softens. “I am certain to have Soundwave on my side. Starscream as well. Others may take more convincing.”  
  
Optimus manages a faint smile, thinking of the arguments he soon faces as well. “It’s going to take much negotiation. A battle of a different sort. But it can be done.” He offers Megatron a hand. “If you’re willing to walk down this road with me.”  
  
Megatron glances at the offered hand, and Optimus can read millennia worth of battles in the glance. “I am,” he says, and slaps his palm into Optimus’. “To peace.”  
  
“To peace,” Optimus agrees, and the flutter in his spark feels a lot like hope.  
  


~

  
  
Optimus is quiet for most of the walk back to the Ark. He doesn’t blink when Jazz sidles up to him, as though he’d known Jazz was there all along. Then again, he’s always had an awareness of Jazz’s presence that no one else has been able to match. Jazz doesn’t know if it’s a Prime thing or a Matrix thing or just an Optimus thing.  
  
“You think it’s gonna work? Peace, I mean,” Jazz says as he falls in step with his lover and his superior officer.  
  
“I hope it does,” Optimus murmurs. His shoulders look a bit lighter, as though years of worry have swept off his back. “I believe Megatron is sincere, just as I believe there are few of us left who are actually eager for the war to continue.”  
  
Jazz snorts. “Boss, I know optimism is kind of your thing, but lemme tell you, as much as no one wants to fight anymore, they aren’t that keen on letting the Decepticons off scott-free either.” Decepticons aren’t the only ones who think the other faction should be exterminated in order to win the war.  
  
“I’m aware of this, Jazz.” Optimus’ voice is amused rather than offended. They know each other too well. “However, that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do our best to make this work. Concessions will have to be made by both factions.”  
  
And executions, no doubt, are off the table. Pity. Jazz can think of more than a few Decepticons who are better off dead than pretending to be peaceful. Then again, Megatron can probably name a few Autobots he’d rather not see live.  
  
“It’s going to take a lot of negotiating,” Jazz muses aloud. “We’ll need Prowl.”  
  
Optimus nods. “Yes, indeed. Hopefully he recovers soon. I need all the best minds the Autobots can gather. This treaty needs to be comprehensive and fair if it’s going to succeed.”  
  
It’s nice to see Optimus like this, Jazz realizes. He looks lighter. He walks with a little spring in his step, perhaps no one but Jazz would have noticed. There’s a positive air around him; it tastes a bit like hope. Like he’s remembering how to live again.  
  
Jazz would kill to keep that smile on Optimus’ face.  
  
This peace is going to succeed. Jazz will do whatever is necessary to ensure it. Whoever he has to threaten or cajole or bribe, he will make certain this peace comes to pass. Even if it leaves him lost, without any idea what to do with himself, it’ll be worth it.  
  
For Optimus to be happy, Jazz would do anything.  
  


~

  
  
Prowl wakes slowly, his processor carrying the dull, familiar ache of a recent glitch, and his tanks clenching from lack of energon, despite the shunt he can feel attached to his lines, directly feeding him. There’s a heavy weight on his chassis, an imaginary one because when he paws clumsily at it, there’s nothing but his own plating there.  
  
He tries to touch it with his other hand and realizes he can’t. His fingers are held fast.  
  
The steady beep of monitoring machines surrounds him, a chorus of higher pitched tones joining the steady whuff of ventilations, asynchronous and not his own. He reaches with his field first, testing the air, and two fields reach back -- Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.  
  
Relief floods Prowl’s system.  
  
It takes two tries to boot his optics, and on the second time, there’s a glitchy haze he has to cycle to clear away. His surroundings are a blur that clarify into a familiar room -- he’s in the medical bay, with Sideswipe clinging to his hand and Sunstreaker knocked out in the other chair. They look as exhausted as Prowl feels.  
  
He shutters his optics and cycles a ventilation. The glitches had been so rare as of late, but he shouldn’t be surprised to have suffered one now. It’s not everyday a mech learns he’s not a mech. He’s not much of a person. He’s a machine. A literal battle computer powered by a spark. A pawn of the Senate, long after their deaths.  
  
He’s been trusted by his Prime, by his lovers, by his friends, and for naught. He’s a snake in their midst, and who knows how long it will be before some deep-seeded code causes him to betray them. What if there’s some programming, buried in his subconscious, designed to work against a possible peace?  
  
He can’t be trusted any longer. Everyone must know, if Rewind hasn’t shared his information with Optimus yet. Prowl would prefer to tell them on his own. He can’t be trusted. He can’t be anything. They should put him in stasis for everyone’s safety.  
  
It’s for the best.  
  
He should tell them.  
  
Prowl fumbles for the berth controls to get himself upright. He tries to disentangle his fingers from Sideswipe’s, but the red twin’s grip only tightens, even in recharge. Prowl sighs and nudges them both with his field.  
  
Sunstreaker bolts awake, startling in his chair, and Sideswipe follows on a second’s delay, his optics bright and wild. Their vents whine in a surge toward defensive protocols that a systems check clicks back into stasis a sparkbeat later.  
  
“You’re awake!” Sideswipe squeezes Prowl’s hand.  
  
“How are you feeling?” Sunstreaker asks, much more reserved, head tilted as though he’s already read the intentions in Prowl’s field.  
  
“I have a lot of work to do,” Prowl says, and gently removes his hand from Sideswipe’s. “I appreciate the both of you looking after me. Have I missed anything?”  
  
“Hey. Whoa. You don’t have to thank us for this kind of thing.” Sideswipe frowns and scoots closer, his field probing at Prowl’s, and Prowl immediately rebutting his interest with a gentle, but firm refusal.  
  
He closes his field behind a firewall. He doesn’t want either of them to sense his emotional state. Then again, do machines have emotional states? Perhaps it’s all a matter of programming. As a battle computer designed to project outcomes, surely he’s taught himself to study the behaviors of mechs around him and react appropriately.  
  
Even machines have limits, however. No wonder they call him cold-sparked. There’s only so much programming can do.  
  
“The scientists have been working on a cure. Both factions are keeping to themselves for now. The treaty still stands,” Sunstreaker says, but his gaze never wanders away from Prowl, and it’s disconcerting to be under that much focus.  
  
Prowl cycles a ventilation. “Thank you, Sunstreaker. I’m sure there’s much work to be done.” He swings his legs over the side of the berth, nearer to Sunstreaker than Sideswipe. “I need to speak with Optimus. Do you know where I can find him?”  
  
“Best ask Teletraan. He’s been all over,” Sunstreaker says, like his words are carefully chosen, his optics narrowed.  
  
“Or you could not get out of the berth and wait for Ratchet to clear you,” Sideswipe says, sounding exasperated. “You were out for three days, Prowl. Maybe you should wait a bit before you dive back into the chaos.”  
  
Sunstreaker scoffs, “Honestly, Sideswipe, have you met, Prowl? Primus.” He rolls his optics and gives Prowl a stern look. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t.”  
  
“I don’t know what you mean.” Prowl stands and sways a moment, his gyros stabilizing, his sensory panels flicking to balance him. “I’m sure you two have duties also. Thank you for being here.”  
  
Sunstreaker frowns.  
  
“Seriously, Prowl. Why do you keep saying that?” Frustration sparks in Sideswipe’s voice. He stands, the chair shooting out from behind him with a clatter. “Is this about what Rewind found? The Cipher project? Because Ratchet says it’s a load of slag.”  
  
“Ratchet and I have a different point of view,” Prowl murmurs, and he slips around the berth, away from Sunstreaker, without meeting the yellow twin’s gaze. “There are other factors to consider. I am a security risk now, and above all else, that cannot stand.”  
  
Sideswipe snags his wrist before Prowl can escape, his fingers warm against Prowl’s armor, his field tentatively trying to reach for Prowl before he’s rebuffed. “You’re not a security risk,” he says. “And you’re not a machine. Come on, Prowl. Wait a second, okay? We need to talk about this.”  
  
Prowl gently slips free of Sideswipe’s grip. “We’ll talk later,” he says, firm. “For now, I have duties to attend.” He manages a wan smile. “Thank you both.”  
  
He leaves before either can convince him to stay. His spark is a tiny, squeezing ball in his chassis, and his processor whirls in a thousand directions, still bringing up databyte after databyte about the discovery they made in the Iacon database.  
  
He pings Teletraan who informs him Optimus is in a conference room with Jazz, Red Alert, Ultra Magnus, and Ironhide. Good. That will make this much easier.  
  
The door opens for Prowl, despite being command locked, and conversation dies as he steps inside, the atmosphere heavy with the weight of their discussion. He doesn’t go far, but lingers within a step of the door. Several pairs of optics turn toward him, and a look of relief flickers over Optimus’ face. Prowl will hate crushing it.  
  
“Prowl,” he greets, starting to rise from his chair. “Ratchet didn’t say you were online yet, but I’m glad to see you on your feet.” Optimus’ smile is genuine, and his relief palpable, and it hurts to know Optimus worried for him.  
  
He dips his head in a bow. “Thank you, Optimus. I haven’t seen Ratchet yet. I onlined a few minutes ago.” Prowl cycles a ventilation, looks past Optimus and stares hard at the wall. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I only came to step down from my post.”  
  
The air goes out of the room.  
  
Optimus frowns in Prowl’s periphery. “I don’t understand.”  
  
Prowl works his intake, focuses on keeping his hands loose at his side, rather than the shaking fists they want to become. “I am a security risk at the moment. We can’t be certain that everything I’ve done or will do does not follow some plan of the Senate’s. Neither can we be certain of my loyalties. You should not trust me.”  
  
He forces himself to look at Optimus, to hold steady against the concern in Optimus’ gaze, bleeding spark that he is. He needs Optimus to be rational here, to understand what Prowl is doing. He’s a machine. Logic is important, but one can’t guide with logic alone. Optimus needs mechs at his side, not machines.  
  
This shouldn't hurt as much as it does. Machines don’t have feelings. Machines do as they are told.  
  
“You have always been trusted,” Ultra Magnus says, slowly and carefully. “Recent revelations do not change that.” How kind of him to say so.  
  
“It should,” Prowl retorts, and is ashamed for how sharp he has made his tone. He draws back, forces calm where he doesn’t feel it. “Regardless, I’m recusing myself from our current negotiations. Smokescreen is more than capable of advising in my place. I suggest you contact him immediately.”  
  
Prowl bows and stares hard at the floor. “I thank you for your trust me until now. It has been an honor to serve.”  
  
He spins and walks out. They call for him, and Prowl ignores it. He is, technically, a footsoldier now, and as such, beholden to the commands of them, his superior officers. But he is sparksick and his recent glitch makes him weary.  
  
He needs to return to the medbay, if only because it’s safer to be in a medically induced stasis, then conscious for whatever foul plot the Senate has lurking in his programming.  
  
What he needs to do and what he ends up doing are two different things. He changes course, making for the room that is his, until he’s assigned a bunk in the general population. He’s no longer a member of high command, therefore, he will not be afforded the minor luxury of a private room.  
  
Sideswipe and Sunstreaker will mourn that loss, he supposes.  
  
He uses his passcode and manages a half-smile when access is granted to him. They haven’t kicked him out of the system yet, though if they are wise, they will do it as soon as they can. He slips inside, feeling weary down to his struts, his door moving to shut behind him.  
  
“Primus, Prowl!” A small black and white shape darts in behind him, and Prowl blinks in surprise as Jazz stares at him, aft nearly clipped by the door. “Ya havin’ fun ignorin’ me or are ya still not right in the head?”  
  
Prowl cycles his optics. “You followed me?”  
  
“Of course I did, you idiot.” Jazz straightens, and his scowl would give Ratchet a run for his credits. “That’s the most brash thing I’ve ever seen ya do. We need yer advice, not for ya to run away in the middle of the biggest thing to happen since the war started!”  
  
Prowl backs up a step and his sensory panels flick. “I’m a security risk,” he repeats. “Primus, Jazz. I’m sure you’ve read the data by now. I’m not even a mech! I’m a walking computer powered by a spark!”  
  
“We’re all computers powered by sparks!” Jazz declares, throwing his hands into the air, his field spiking wildly through the room.  
  
“You know what I mean, Jazz, don’t play a game of semantics with me.” Prowl rubs his forehead, the ache growing stronger behind his optics. “I am a computer designed by the Senate purely for the sake of eliminating the Decepticons in a manner which would further their agenda. I sincerely doubt a cease-fire would have been their preferable outcome.”  
  
Jazz glares at him. “Our tactics don’t live and die by your decisions. We need your advice. We trust you. The rest of us can keep you in check.”  
  
Prowl shakes his head and tucks his hands behind his back, to hide the fact they’re shaking. “It’s a risk I can’t take. I don’t trust myself anymore, Jazz. Not after this. Not with everything we have at stake.”  
  
“And to walk out when we’re in the middle of key negotiations is a better option?” Jazz demands, and his field spikes with anger, as sharp as a slap to the face. “That’s stupid! Why don’t you plug that into your calculations?!”  
  
“They’re not mine,” Prowl hisses, his spark strobing fast and sharp in his chassis -- and he has to remind himself, it’s not a spark, it’s a power source. He’s a machine, not a mech. “I can’t be trusted! I could ruin this treaty before it even has a chance.”  
  
Jazz snarls at him, his hands balling into the fists Prowl can’t form. “You’re being a coward. We don’t know what any of it means. We aren’t even sure it’s you. It’s too soon to worry about anything.” He slashes a hand through the air. “We need you in the room, not Smokescreen, not Trailbreaker. Optimus needs you at his side. You. That’s the truth.”  
  
Prowl bows his head, shuttering his optics. It’s hard to think, with the pounding his head, and the truths battering at his firewalls.He knows it’s him. They may choose not to put their belief in it, but the facts are too much.  
  
The sparkdate and space is the same. His prior designation. The day he joined the Autobots. The name of the mech sent to watch over him -- Varnish, not a friend who’d saved his life as he remembers, but a soldier with a duty, meant to deliver him to the Autobots. The stats of the processing unit and his own battle computer, matching kernel for kernel.  
  
“The only absolute truth is that we can’t afford to make any mistakes,” Prowl says, and projects as much command into his tone as he can manage. “I am sorry, Jazz. I’ve made my choice.”  
  
Jazz growls at him, and the anger in his field makes Prowl flinch. “I’m not letting you do this. You can take some time, think about it, but Ultra Magnus ain’t takin’ over yet. I won’t let him. We need you, and you’re goin’ to realize that sooner rather than later.”  
  
He spins on a heel and storms to Prowl’s door, the heel of his palm slamming against the access panel. It springs open, perhaps obeying Jazz’s ire, and he nearly collides with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker standing on the other side of it.  
  
“You try talkin’ sense into him,” Jazz snaps as he pushes between them, and they slide out of his way at the same time. “I’m done.” He throws his hands into the air and vanishes.  
  
Prowl sighs and drops down into the nearest chair, scrubbing his face.  
  
“What was that about?” Sideswipe asks as he and Sunstreaker enter, the door shutting and locking behind them, Sunstreaker wise enough to activate the privacy screen.  
  
“I’ve stepped down as second in command and tactical advisor to the Autobots,” Prowl says, bracing his elbows on his knees, tangling his fingers together. “Or at least, I intended to. I’m told that my resignation was temporarily refused.”  
  
“Why would you do that?” Sideswipe plants his aft on the low table, despite the fact Prowl has told him many times not to do so.  
  
“I can’t be trusted,” Prowl murmurs, his head bowed, the grief clutching his spark. “I don’t want the Senate to have a hand in the negotiations. I want peace.”  
  
Sunstreaker crouches down beside the chair, and the weight of his gaze lands on Prowl, incisive as always. “Optimus trusts you. He’s always trusted you. This doesn’t change anything.”  
  
“No. It changes everything.” Prowl cycles a ventilation and has a hard time keeping it even. Everything inside of him trembles. “I am not what I thought I was. I’m a pawn. I’ve always been a pawn.”  
  
Sideswipe twists his jaw. "We're all pawns in some way. Besides, the Senate is dead. They aren't giving commands anymore. You're being a little irrational, you know. Which isn't like you."  
  
"Because that's not all this is about," Sunstreaker murmurs, taking one of Prowl's hands into his. "Is it, Prowl?"  
  
He can't meet Sunstreaker's gaze. This is something he's not sure he's ready to talk about, this deep-seeded self-consciousness. A lack of confidence, he's not used to carrying, but is suddenly running rampant through every line of thought in the core of his being.  
  
"I'm a twin, you know," Sunstreaker says, and he squeezes Prowl's hand. "We're split-spark. I used to wonder if that meant we were different people or not. Sometimes, I still do."  
  
Sideswipe's field flickers with understanding. "Yeah, I mean, even I worry about that. If what I'm feeling is me or of it's Sunny. We have to work hard to block each other out, but it's never one-hundred percent."  
  
"We're two separate people, we know that, but sometimes, it's hard to remember it. That we have our own wants and desires outside of the bond. Though you were pretty easy to agree on," Sunstreaker says. His thumb rubs along the back of Prowl’s hand in a smooth, steady rhythm.  
  
Prowl cycles a ventilation. He focuses on the rhythm, counts the beats of it, to give his twirling thoughts something to match. The analogy is apt, not exact to his worries, but close enough. Of all the mechs aboard the Ark-22, with the exception of Red Alert, his twins are perhaps the only ones who might understand his predicament.  
  
He swallows over a lump in his intake. It's terrifying to feel vulnerable. If he opens up about this, there's no closing that door. But then, if he's only a machine as he fears, does it matter?  
  
Logically, this is the best course of action. And logic is all he has right now, since emotion threatens to glitch him.  
  
"I was designed as a tactical computer," Prowl says, barely above a whisper. "They gave me a spark to make me mobile. What if that's all I am? What if I'm just a machine, mimicking real mechs around me to look like I belong?"  
  
Silence.  
  
Sideswipe sucks in a ventilation, swift and sharp. Their fields ripple with the enormity of what he's admitted. He knows they don't have the answers, and it doesn't feel any better to give them the burden.  
  
A burden shared is a burden halved, but Prowl's not sure if that's accurate in this case.  
  
"I don't know how sparks work," Sideswipe says slowly, and he scoots to the very edge of the table, his hands resting on Prowl's knees. "I'm not a medic. I'm just a big, dumb frontliner. But I think that's a load of slag. You're a mech, Prowl. You're not a machine."  
  
"And even if you were just mimicking everyone around you, so what? That makes you a damn good actor, and we like you anyway," Sunstreaker says, with a fierceness Prowl had not expected. "We like you for whatever you are. So anyone else can jump off a cliff if they have a problem with it."  
  
Despite himself, Prowl chuckles, because it is such a Sunstreaker thing to say. He lifts his gaze, and is stunned by the looks on their faces -- twin expressions of determination and affection. His sensory panels flick, his spark swelling with warmth, his own adoration of these two, and he wants so badly for the emotions to be real, rather than a product of some mimicry software.  
  
Only Ratchet could tell him for sure, what his programming does, how he's coded. Part of him is afraid to ask.  
  
"You're not the only one people think is sparkless," Sunstreaker adds, and he grins, but it's a sharp thing, full of dark humor. "We can be sparkless together."  
  
It should not sound so romantic, but it does.  
  
Prowl cups Sunstreaker's face and pulls him in, pressing their foreheads together. "You are not sparkless," he says, sweeping his thumb over Sunstreaker's cheek.  
  
He slips his hand free of Sunstreaker's and reaches for Sideswipe, pulling the red twin as well. "Neither of you are sparkless," Prowl continues as he cups the back of Sideswipe's neck, pulsing his affection through his field -- real or feigned, they both trust in it, so it means something to them.  
  
He supposes that's what matters the most.  
  
"Come to berth," Sunstreaker says.  
  
"There's a lot of things you can fake, but I guarantee that pleasure isn't one of them, at least when it's because of us," Sideswipe says, and Prowl doesn't have to see the grin to know it's there. "You're still Prowl to us. Nothing's changed."  
  
Gratitude pulses heavy in Prowl's spark. He wants to believe the emotion is real.  
  
"The berth," Prowl says, reaching for anything that might prove him wrong. It’s an act of desperation, and maybe that means he’s not a computer, maybe it doesn’t. "I have a lot of free time as it is. Might as well make the most of it."  
  
Sunstreaker stands and pulls Prowl with him, though it's a tangle of red and yellow arms tugging Prowl to the berth. "We'll talk about that, too. But later."  
  
"I think this is the first time we don't have to share you with the war," Sideswipe says, and his engine gives a little rev of eagerness. "So we're going to take full advantage of it."  
  
"Just don't think for awhile," Sunstreaker adds as he pulls Prowl onto the berth, sandwiching him between their frames, "Stop thinking and concentrate on feeling."  
  
"As sappy as that sounds." Sideswipe chuckles against Prowl's audial before his lips wander a warm, wet path down the curve of Prowl's intake.  
  
"Shut up," Sunstreaker mutters, and his indignation is swallowed by Prowl's kiss, by the sweep of Prowl's hands over silken-smooth golden armor, and the rise of Sunstreaker beneath him.  
  
Prowl has never been one for poetic words, and no one has ever accused him of having a silvertongue. While he’s been with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe long enough for such important things like love and trust to pass between them, words often fail him.  
  
Nevertheless, he’s certain that if he were to look up the definition of ‘lovemaking’, it would refer to this very moment.  
  
To the reverent way they lay him out on the berth, and their hands sweep his armor as if memorizing every plate, every seam. To the kisses they leave in their wake, warm and tingling, their movements in synchronized tandem, until there’s not an inch of him that isn’t buzzing with arousal and need.  
  
His valve is slick and swollen. His spike is full and dribbling. They avoid his array, choosing instead to taste and tease his chevron, his sensory panels, the back of his knees, his ankle joint, the join of intake and shoulder. They murmur sweet words and brush his mouth with kisses, and Prowl has to swallow a sob of joy, because it feels like being whole, being a person and not a machine, and he doesn’t know if he deserves this gift or not.  
  
He fears he’s only lying to them, by letting them love him. He’s just selfish enough to bite his glossa, to let them continue, because he wants them so very much, even if that want is only a program meant to mimic real mechs, it feels real to him.  
  
He loves them, and he wants them, and they are the last real thing he’s certain he can hold.  
  
It’s Sunstreaker who slides onto his spike, and Sideswipe who slips into his valve, taking and being taken. Prowl is pinned beneath them, subject to their weight, to the pleasure they thrust on him, and he’s helpless in the wake of it. He doesn’t try to resist. He gives in to the waves of pleasure, to their perfect rhythm and their sweet kisses.  
  
He soaks up the affection they offer, the promises behind their actions, and when he overloads, it’s less about pleasure and more about understanding. Acceptance even. He clings to the love they offer him, pressed between their frames as all three of them click and flutter while they cool down, still sticky from exertions but too exhausted to drag themselves to the washrack.  
  
“Love you,” Sideswipe says, pressing a kiss to Prowl’s shoulder.  
  
“And don’t you forget,” Sunstreaker adds with a sweep of his fingers over Prowl’s chestplate and the seam protecting his spark -- the one line they haven’t crossed yet. “You’re ours.”  
  
“As long as you want me,” Prowl says, and he catches them exchanging a glance, but they say nothing, just settle down into the berth.  
  
“Ten minutes,” Sunstreaker says into the ensuing silence. “Then we bathe.”  
  
Prowl manages a chuckle, clinging to the familiarity of it all. “Yes, sir.”  
  
Some things change, and some things never will.  
  


***


	6. Chapter 6

"Are you sure you're ready to get out of the berth?"  
  
Drift rolls his optics and stands, momentarily unsteady before he finds his feet. "If I don't, you'll sit by me until the end of time, and then no work is going to get done. I'd rather be cured."  
  
Perceptor frowns, and his concern batters Drift in waves, nearly suffocating if Drift couldn't feel the affection behind them. "I still think we should wait for Ratchet to clear you."  
  
"If he has it his way, I won't leave until he's one-hundred percent sure the virus is gone from my system, and I'm going to go crazy if I stay cooped up in this room any longer." Drift grips the end of the berth, maneuvering around it. His legs wobble, but hold him.  
  
Perceptor sighs and scrubs his forehead. "You're so stubborn."  
  
"If I remember correctly, that's one of the things you liked about me." Drift grins, making a point to show off his denta. He takes care to hide them around the other Autobots, around the Wreckers, but Perceptor has known him as Deadlock, and they don't bother him at all.  
  
"What I like is when you're healthy," Perceptor says, his tone sharp before he reels it in, trying to grip to his self-control.  
  
"And I will be, as soon as you stop nannying me and go join the rest of the brilliant scientists who are going to cure this virus." Drift thumps his chest pointedly. "My spark is literally in your hands, Percy."  
  
"I know that, too." Perceptor crosses his arms, targeting lens flashing in the overhead light. "Why were things simpler when you were a Decepticon?"  
  
Drift works his way to the door and though his head spins a little, he makes it. Victory! "That's a question only you can answer." He pokes the panel and nearly crows when the door opens without a protest. "Maybe you liked it better when you didn't have to work so hard at it."  
  
"That's not fair."  
  
Drift peers into the hallway, but there's no medic or medibot in sight. There's no one to stop his escape. He slips out and unsurprisingly, Perceptor follows him, radiating disapproval and a simmering anger.  
  
"You're the one acting different," Perceptor says, though he's smart enough to keep his voice hushed so Drift doesn't get caught.  
  
"There are two different viruses inside of me changing who I am," Drift reminds him, as his tanks twist with distaste. "If I was ever anything to begin with."  
  
Perceptor catches his wrist, pulling him to a stop with a strength few know him capable, save those who served among the Wreckers.  
  
"I know you’re hurting, and I know you’re angry, but please don't forget you aren't alone. I'm on your side, Drift." He guides Drift off to the side of the hall, out of the flow of traffic. "I know your spark." His palm rests on Drift's chestplate then, over the locked seams protecting his chamber.  
  
Drift softens.  
  
He shoves down the fury trying to rise up and swallow him whole. He knows it's irrational. He knows his emotions are close to the surface because of the virus and their attempts to wall it away. But knowing and reacting are two different things.  
  
"I'm sorry," Drift murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to hear. "You're right."  
  
"You don't need to apologize." Perceptor is too forgiving, Drift decides, as much as he's grateful for it. "Like I said, I understand. But please take it easy." A shadow flickers into his optics.  
  
Drift, at once, feels like a fool and an aft all at once. Perceptor had been there, when Drift glitched. He'd watched as Drift collapsed, and been forced to admit there's nothing he could do, while desperately seeking better medical attention.  
  
"I'm not going to do anything rash, I promise." Drift leans in and up, pressing his forehead to Perceptor's, not caring if anyone sees. "I just need to get out of the medbay before I go crazy."  
  
"That, I think, I can relate to." Perceptor chuckles and slides his hand around Drift's, threading their fingers together. "Come on. I'll show you the laboratory and all we've done in support of the cease-fire so far."  
  
"Want to keep an optic on me?" Drift asks as he lets Perceptor tow him down the hallway, much more at ease now that he's leading rather than chasing.  
  
Perceptor gives him a look that's full of heat. "There are a few private quarters," he says, "Of which I have access to."  
  
 _Oh._  
  
Drift grins and his pointed denta make a reappearance. "Then by all means, lead the way." He's quite sure he has more than enough energy for this.  
  


~

  
  
Prowl's alarm goes off because he hasn't thought to remove it. He wakes alert and ready to begin his duties, until the memory of the evening before trickles into his active queue. He sinks back into his berth, tucked between Sideswipe and Sunstreaker.  
  
Or at least he should be, but the berth to either side of him is empty, a lingering warmth suggesting the twins haven't been gone long.  
  
He still has permission to access the duty roster, and a quick check tells him their schedule. Both have a morning shift. There will be no sleeping in and snuggling, unfortunately.  
  
Prowl leverages himself out of the berth. There’s no point in lingering. He might as well start packing up what little belongings he has and seeing what space there is to be had in the soldier barracks. That is, if Optimus will allow him to step down.  
  
If that is truly the best course of action.  
  
Prowl had been so sure, when he’d onlined in the medical bay and made straight for the conference room. He’d been certain he couldn’t be trusted, that the Autobots deserved better than a walking computer to help lead them into a peaceful future.  
  
Now, he doubts himself, if but in a slightly different manner than before.  
  
He steps out of the berthroom and nearly collides with Sideswipe, who’s holding a cube of energon. They blink at each other, and Sideswipe slips into an easy grin.  
  
“I should have known you’d listen to your alarm, even if you didn’t have to,” he says, and offers Prowl the cube. “Here. Flavored just the way you like it.”  
  
“Thank you, Sideswipe.” Prowl takes the slightly chilled cube, indeed how he likes it, and glances around the room. Sunstreaker is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps washing and waxing before his shift, per usual.  
  
Sideswipe leans in, brushing his lips over Prowl’s cheek. “We’re pretty good at takin’ care of mechs. Just ask Ratchet.” He winks and pulls back. “But I gotta catch up with Sunny before he starts hollerin’ at me.” He taps his audial pointedly. “Mech can’t let me show up on shift lookin’ less than perfect. He thinks it reflects badly on him or something.”  
  
Prowl chuckles. “Yes, I can see him saying that.”  
  
Sideswipe grins before it slides away into something more serious. “Meanwhile, you’d better go see Ratchet or Jazz or Optimus or whoever you need to get this figured out. You belong up there next to Optimus, you know you do.”  
  
Their faith in him is a thing of wonder.  
  
“I’ll do my best,” Prowl says, but he makes no promises aloud. He’s not sure he’s ready for the truth Ratchet will hand him, for fear it echoes what he’s already assumed.  
  
Sideswipe cups his face and pulls him in for a kiss, a longer one this time, sweet with the taste of Sideswipe’s preferred energon flavorings. He presses their foreheads together, a little hum rising in his intake.  
  
“We love you for you,” Sideswipe murmurs, and Prowl’s spark jolts, as it always does whenever either twin offers him the word ‘love’ without flinching. “Don’t forget that.”  
  
“I won’t,” Prowl promises, because this is one he can keep.  
  
Sideswipe smiles again before he draws away, though reluctance shimmers in his field. “Sunny’s laying on the comms now, so I gotta go, but we’ll be back tonight.”  
  
“Try not to get into trouble today,” Prowl calls after him.  
  
“Would I do that?” Sideswipe asks with a look that would never qualify as innocent. He winks and vanishes out the door, which closes with a beep behind him.  
  
Prowl shakes his head and focuses on his energon, sipping on it as he slides behind his console. He powers it on, plugs into Teletraan, which recognizes and greets him. Datawork waits for him, and Prowl knows he should forward it to Ultra Magnus, but he hesitates. So much of who he is and what he does is bundled in these reports.  
  
He doesn’t want to hand over the responsibilities. He knows he should. It’s for the best, but he still hesitates.  
  
He doesn’t want to give this up. He wants to keep his post. He wants to stand alongside Optimus as they formally end the war and start working on a peaceful future. He doesn’t want to slink into the shadows, deactivate himself. He doesn’t want to live in fear.  
  
He wishes they’d never found that file.  
  
Prowl closes down the console without touching anything. He should fill out a formal abdication of post, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He drains his energon, tosses the cube into the recycler, and braces himself to leave his quarters, wondering if he’ll be locked out when he tries to return.  
  
No. Not if Optimus truly wants him.  
  
He doesn’t have a set destination in mind. Instead, Prowl wanders. The Ark is a wholly different place, now that they’re landed. Rather than having the crew cooped together in small quarters, they’re free to wander during their off-duty hours. There’s a wide berth given to the Nemesis and the neutral ground arranged in the middle for the scientists to work, but there is plenty of Iacon to explore.  
  
Trinkets are being gathered and recovered. Stable buildings have been claimed by those eager to have private quarters again, even if it means they lack the amenities the Ark can provide. There is still a clear demarcation between Autobots and Decepticons, but Prowl has heard of no outright clashes, so he counts it a blessing.  
  
The Ark is very quiet, especially without the ambient hum of a ship in orbit or in motion.  
  
Prowl roams, taking in the ambiance, passing few Autobots in the process. Those who don’t know anything of the discovery treat him with smiles and greetings. Everyone is in high spirits.  
  
His own disquiet is worth their peace.  
  
When he can put it off no longer, Prowl changes direction and heads for the medical bay. If he has any hope of making a decision, he needs answers. Only Ratchet can provide them.  
  
Ratchet, however, doesn’t seem to be present. There’s an odd stillness about when Prowl goes into the medbay, and while the door chimes to announce his arrival, he doesn’t hear Ratchet grumbling from the backroom.  
  
Odd.  
  
“Ratchet?”  
  
“He’s not here.”  
  
Prowl cycles his optics. That is not a voice he expected to hear, so when Starscream steps out of the corridor leading to the back rooms, Prowl is more than surprised. Nominally, the Decepticons and Autobots have been given free movement into their respective ships, but few are willing to take advantage of it. Ratchet comes and goes as he pleases, to no one’s surprise, but Prowl hadn’t expected Starscream to visit the Ark unaccompanied.  
  
“I assume he’s at the laboratory,” Prowl says, unconsciously straightening. It’s not that he’s afraid of Starscream, or intimidated by the Seeker, but that he knows how keen Starscream can be. He’ll sniff out weakness in a sparkbeat.  
  
Starscream folds his arms and tilts his head. “Yes. Along with everyone else.” Long fingers drum over the plating of his arm. “I came to retrieve a few pieces of equipment for a list Ratchet gave me. Or am I not allowed?”  
  
“You don’t have to be defensive. I didn’t ask.” Prowl’s lips twitch toward a frown, but he schools his expression into neutrality. “Has any progress been made on the anti-virus?”  
  
“Some.” Starscream moves closer to him, head cocked, his gaze sharp and assessing as it travels over Prowl. “You weren’t at the meeting yesterday, though it’s your designation logged on the treaty drafts.”  
  
Anger flashes cold and quick through Prowl’s spark but he swallows it down. “I’m sure Optimus explained why.”  
  
“He said you were indisposed, but we both know I’ve read the report.” Starscream’s wingtips flick, and his expression remains neutral. “So was it his decision or yours?”  
  
“Mine,” Prowl grits out. He doesn’t want to talk to Starscream about this, but there’s no graceful exit from this conversation without offering Starscream a weapon to use against him. “Surely you can understand why.”  
  
Starscream makes a noncommittal noise, and his gaze turns distant. “I know a little something about choices, whether given or not.”  
  
“What do you mean?” There’s something in Starscream’s voice Prowl would tag as contemplative, rather than sly and cutting.  
  
Starscream unfolds one arm and examines the tips of his fingers, a casual bit of frame language, but the clamping of his armor suggests an extreme discomfort. “I am a Seeker,” he says, as if that is all the answer Prowl should need. “We are all cold-constructed. We were put into pre-constructed frames to fit an existing mold. But I was sparked in the fields of Vos.”  
  
Prowl’s optics widen. “You’re not Matrix born?”  
  
“No. I was a field-born spark put into a cold-constructed frame because it was easier and faster. More malleable.” He gives Prowl a look flavored with a sharp smile. “When you want something that can be controlled, you start mastering it from birth.”  
  
He doesn’t ask why Starscream is telling him this, because he knows and understands. They are not so different after all.  
  
Prowl cycles a ventilation. Starscream, by virtue of his sparking, should have always been a puppet to his masters, but he’s obviously broken free of that mold to become what he is today. Arguably, it’s not a mech Prowl would want to be, but Starscream seems satisfied with his lot in life.  
  
For a certain definition of satisfied.  
  
“I don’t know if I trust who I am,” Prowl admits.  
  
Starscream lifts his shoulders, rolling them in a near-shrug. “I can’t tell you how to do that. Trusting who I am is pretty much all I have.” He sets his jaw, and something fierce and determined rises in his field. “I don’t care what they tried to make me, I make my own choices, and I’m what I want to be. I’ll rip out anything that tries to tell me otherwise.”  
  
“You think you had a choice?” Prowl asks.  
  
Starscream cycles a ventilation, his wings twitching in a downward sweep. “I think there are a lot of things programming can make us do, but we always have a choice.” He lifts his chin, pride glimmering in his energy field. “And I choose not to be defined by a bunch of dead mechs.”  
  
Prowl never thought he’d see the day he’d take advice from Starscream, and that it would be helpful.  
  
“You make a very good point,” Prowl says.  
  
“Of course I do. I’m not an idiot, contrary to proper belief.” Starscream chuffs a ventilation, and there it is, the arrogance he wields so prominently. He pauses and makes an irritated face before rolling his optics. “And Ratchet is shouting for his supplies. He’s lucky I’m not there in person.”  
  
Starscream turns away from him, stalking toward the back, wings hiked upward in irritation. “I’ll see you at tomorrow’s meeting, Prowl. There are some phrases in the treaty I don’t like.”  
  
“You assume I’m going to be there,” Prowl says, while amusement ripples through his spark. He feels lighter than he has since the discovery was made.  
  
“I’m not a coward and neither are you,” is Starscream’s answer before he keys himself into the supply room -- he must have gotten the code from Ratchet -- and vanishes.  
  
Will wonders never cease?  
  


~

  
  
If Starscream takes any longer with that power converter, Ratchet is going to rip off his pretty wings and staple them to the wall of his medbay, as a reminder for all who come into his domain that they do so at their own peril.  
  
Wheeljack chuckles. “You know, the only other mechs I’ve seen get under your plating like Starscream are the twins, and we all know they’re a special case.”  
  
Ratchet tosses him a sour look. “I know what you’re implying, and I don’t like it.”  
  
“Sure, sure. Just like you don’t watch his aft when he walks away.” Wheeljack lifts a coding synchronizer and hauls it to a different table. “You keep forgetting that I knew you before the war. Both of you.”  
  
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Ratchet demands.  
  
Wheeljack’s indicators flash amusement at him. “If you didn’t already know, you wouldn’t be so defensive. Hey, don’t we have work to do?”  
  
“You are terrible at trying to change the subject,” Ratchet snaps, shoving a finger his best friends direction. “And I’m not talking about this.”  
  
“About what?” Wheeljack asks as a chime rings above both their heads.  
  
“That had better be Starscream with my converters,” Ratchet huffs as he swivels around to glance at the monitor, but no, it’s not a Seeker stepping into the research center, but Prowl. No doubt with a question Ratchet’s been trying to answer since the fool stumbled into an uncomfortable truth in the bowels of Iacon.  
  
He’s not going to get this uploader finished today. Ratchet can feel it.  
  
He sighs and clicks his sequencer into pause. “I’ll be back.” Ratchet leverages himself off the stool and heads for the door, passing a silent Shockwave who’s been observing their shenanigans but not commenting. “Don’t let Wheeljack do anything volatile.”  
  
“I have zero control over your chief science officer, but I will endeavor to try,” Shockwave says without a single blink from that eerie optic of his.  
  
Tch. Decepticons.  
  
Ratchet intercepts Prowl in the hallway, the second in command looking both curious and confused. He schools his expression into something more neutral when he spots Ratchet, however, and Ratchet knows a defense mechanism when he sees one.  
  
“About time you showed up,” Ratchet says, and maybe he’s a bit gruff, but gentleness has its time and place, and now is not it. “You finally ready to hear what I have to say?”  
  
Prowl holds himself rigid, sensory panels arched like a pair of sentinels, his armor in a smooth clamp tight to his frame. “No. But hear it I shall.”  
  
Ratchet tilts his head toward a nearby door. “Alright, come on then. You probably want some privacy for this.” He keys it open and gestures Prowl into the tiny cubicle with the single console. Sometimes, Shockwave gets annoyed with their banter and comes in here to work, silent and alone.  
  
It’s a tight squeeze for two, but they manage. The conversation isn’t going to be terribly long anyway.  
  
“We’re making great progress on the anti-virus,” Ratchet says conversationally as the door shuts behind them. “We should have a beta trial ready by this afternoon, and Brainstorm and Perceptor are building a drone to test it on.”  
  
Prowl nods slowly. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” He folds his arms under his bumper. “Though perhaps given my current status, you shouldn’t have shared that information with me.”  
  
Ratchet rolls his optics. “Right, so let’s get one thing straight.” He leans back against the console, his spinal strut aching, and he resists the urge to rub it. Primus, he’s getting old. “Yeah, your base processor is designed around a battle system. Yes, in their infinite wisdom, they shoved a spark at it to power it. But you’re not a machine. You’re a mech.”  
  
“That doesn’t make any sense.” Prowl frowns, and his field snakes out of his control, heavy with fear and disquiet.  
  
“Only because you’re not a medic.” Ratchet pokes Prowl in the chasiss, right over the triple-reinforced shielding he has for a chestplate. “You got a spark, you’re a mech. Doesn’t matter what they intended. You might have started out as a computer, but that spark has made you who you are, and your whole life alongside it.”  
  
Prowl worries at his bottom lip. His forehead crinkles, and there’s contemplation in the clicking-hum of his vents. “How do I know the choices I’m making, aren’t just the choices they programmed me to make?”  
  
“Because you’re not a machine. As soon as they gave you a spark, they made you a person. You’re not an advanced AI, Prowl. I promise.” Ratchet shifts his weight and frag it, he reaches back and rubs his heel along the base of his backstrut. “You’re a mech, same as the rest of us.”  
  
Prowl is silent, and Ratchet knows it’s because he’s digesting the new information, calculating the truths in it faster than any of them can understand. It makes sense now, knowing the construction of Prowl’s processor, but before, it had always been something of a mystery.  
  
Damn the Senate for messing with things they don’t fully understand.  
  
Ratchet lets him think and massages his aching spinal strut until Prowl finally stirs with a slow, decisive nod.  
  
“Thank you, Ratchet. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”  
  
“Well, don’t spend too long thinking. We need you at the negotiation table.” Ratchet grunts and pushes off the console edge, opening the door so they can slip out of the tiny room. “No one understands civilian law like you do.”  
  
“You’re kind, but I’m well aware of Ultra Magnus’ past experience,” Prowl says.  
  
Ratchet snorts and slaps Prowl on the shoulder. “I’m talking civilian life, Prowl, not law enforcement and legalese. This isn’t just battle anymore. It’s commerce, too.” Which Prowl excels at, if he’d give himself two seconds to remember it.  
  
“Fair enough.” Prowl tips his head in acquiescence as the exterior door opens, and Starscream strides inside, a crate tucked under one arm.  
  
Ratchet straightens, shooting the Seeker a glare. “About time you came back. What did you do? Go sightseeing?”  
  
Starscream arches an orbital ridge at him. “Miss me that much, did you?” His gaze slants to Prowl with an acknowledging tip of his head. “I hope you found the answers you needed.”  
  
“Enough to contemplate, yes,” Prowl says. “And now I’ll leave you all to the more important task of the anti-virus.”  
  
Prowl leaves, but Ratchet reserves the majority of his attention for Starscream, and the something simmering between them.  
  
“I know you’re grumpy by nature, but I’d swear you save the worst of it for me,” Starscream says, his tone light, but something buried in his words. “Do you hate me that much or are my brands the problem?”  
  
“You know it’s neither of those things.” Ratchet takes the crate from Starscream, who relinquishes it without a fuss. “This isn’t the time for anything but our research. There are mechs depending on us.”  
  
Starscream lifts his chin. “Hm. Duty. So that’s what you’re going to hide behind.” He sweeps past Ratchet, wing flicking toward him as he does. “If you insist. But don’t be surprised if by the time it’s done, I’m too busy for you.”  
  
Trust Starscream to have a sense of dramatic flair. Ratchet doesn’t bother to argue, lets Starscream stalk his way into the laboratory.  
  
Ratchet sighs.  
  
The war is over, but nothing is easy and complications abound.  
  
There are still plenty of battles to fight.  
  


~

  
  
“We have to get out of the berth sometime today. There is work to be done,” Optimus murmurs, his optics half-shuttered, his field a lazy swirl of contentment around him.  
  
Jazz chuckles from where he’s curled atop Optimus’ frame, limbs intertwined, holding him in place if anyone asks. Optimus is, of course, strong enough to simply lift Jazz and set him aside, but he rather likes this quiet moment the war had never afforded them.  
  
Primus, he prays this cease-fire becomes permanent and the peace lasts. He is so very tired of fighting.  
  
“We don’t have a battle to plan or troops to move. I think the Autobot army will survive a little bit longer if you give yourself time to ventilate,” Jazz says with a hum. He nuzzles into Optimus’ intake, his lips leaving a tingling path of pleasure in their wake.  
  
Optimus shifts, his array warming at a rapid pace. It feels absolutely decadent to lie here like this, slowly rising to pleasure rather than a quick frag after the heat of battle, or a furtive interface in the dead of night.  
  
He sweeps a hand down Jazz’s back, and Jazz arches into his palm like a voltaic cat, his engine purring.  
  
“I don’t think this qualifies as restful.” Optimus cups Jazz’s aft, one finger dipping between his thighs to fondle the hidden panel.  
  
He finds swollen heat instead, dampness coating the tip of his fingers. Jazz is already open and ready for him, the eager rolls of his hips speaking of impatience.  
  
“Come on, big guy. Don’t keep me waitin’,” Jazz pants and starts to knead at Optimus’ chassis, fingers sliding over his windshield and around the seams of his armor.  
  
Someone pings Optimus’ door.  
  
He stills, with Jazz squirming atop him, inches away from sinking onto his spike. “Wait,” Optimus murmurs, accessing the system to see who’s on the other side.  
  
“Ignore them!” Jazz says, and maybe it’s a whine, not that his third would ever admit it aloud. Spies do not whine, thank you very much, Jazz would say. They plead in a strong, demanding tone.  
  
Optimus sighs and shakes his head. “I can’t. It’s Prowl.” He sits up and lifts Jazz from his lap, laying him back down in the berth. “If I turn him aside, he might choose to submit his resignation after all.”  
  
Jazz groans and collapses into the berthpad, squirming to tangle himself into the covers. “He has the worst timing.”  
  
Optimus slides out of the berth and presses a kiss to Jazz’s head, between his finials. “I’ll be back as soon as I finish speaking with him. I promise.”  
  
“You’d better,” Jazz says as his head vanishes beneath the mesh blanket, until he’s little more than a swaddled lump on the bed, his field withdrawing from Optimus and taking the warm arousal of it with him.  
  
Optimus tries not to sigh. He grabs a meshcloth and hastily wipes himself clean, stowing his spike with some effort. Prowl, he knows, won’t chime the door again. He’s more likely to consider Optimus indisposed and leave him be, rather than press for entrance.  
  
Optimus hurries to answer the door, and catches Prowl before he gets down the corridor. “I apologize, Prowl. I was distracted and--”  
  
“By Jazz, I wager. I shouldn’t have disturbed you.” There’s no irritation in Prowl’s voice. If anything, he looks faintly amused. “You two deserve a quiet moment.”  
  
A flush creeps into Optimus’ face before he can push it down. “I had thought we were--”  
  
“Discreet?” Prowl finishes for him, and that amusement continues to linger as he approaches Optimus, gaze sharply assessing and lingering on Optimus’ hip. “You were, but Jazz needed a confidante, and I volunteered. Especially when it came time that I began a romantic relationship of my own.”  
  
Optimus steps aside so Prowl can enter, and takes a chance to glance at his own frame. There’s a streak of black paint in a long, rather lurid stripe through a swath of red. Well, at least he’d wiped off the lubricant. How embarrassing, for a Prime to be caught in such a state. But then, this is Prowl. He’s certainly seen Optimus in worse conditions.  
  
“He’s going to be angry with me,” Prowl adds as Optimus shuts the door in his wake and turns to face Prowl. “I’ll make this as brief as I can.”  
  
Optimus nods and gestures Prowl to the small sitting area available for his use. He has the largest quarters in the Ark, and while he tried to argue he didn’t need anything more extensive than the rest of his crew, he’d been overruled.  
  
“What can I do for you?” Optimus asks.  
  
Prowl audibly cycles a ventilation, and the amusement washes away into a more sober expression. “I want to apologize first. I acted rather rashly and didn’t think about how my actions would impact the Autobots in this difficult time.”  
  
Optimus shakes his head, holding up a hand before Prowl offers more apologies. “It’s quite alright. I understand. I don’t know of anyone who could have responded differently.”  
  
“I should have,” Prowl says with an air of self-castigation. He cycles a ventilation. "However, I can't change the past, I can only change my actions in the future, and it is my hope you'll allow me to return to my post."  
  
Relief floods through Optimus so quickly he almost deflates, until he steels his spinal strut. "It was always yours, Prowl. I never intended to take it from you."  
  
Prowl smiles, and Optimus can see it for the fragile offer it is. "That's because you are a good mech. It would never occur to you how I might be compromised."  
  
"I trusted you before we knew about the Senate's plans for your computing system. That trust doesn't get wiped away because of something you have no control over." Optimus sits back in his chair, posture shifting to comfort and ease with hopes Prowl might try to mirror him. "The very fact that your first instinct was to protect the Autobots proves to me what I already knew -- that you're committed to us, you are on our side, and you are worthy of our trust."  
  
Prowl's sensory panels twitch, though his expression is one of careful control. "I'm honored by that trust, and I swear to do right by it."  
  
"I already know you will." Optimus smiles, relieved to the very core of his spark. "We have another meeting this afternoon to discuss the parameters of the treaty. I'd like for you to be there."  
  
"I wouldn't miss it." Prowl rises with elegant ease, and Optimus stands as well. "I won't take up any more of your time. I know you were otherwise occupied. We can talk more later." He glances to the side, to the closed door of Optimus' berth room, and a hint of Prowl's rare humor peeks through his poise.  
  
Optimus chuckles as he walks Prowl back to the door, the warmth in his spark suffusing his entire frame. "I appreciate your discretion." He keys open the door and Prowl moves to leave, but Optimus lays a hand on his shoulder.  
  
He shifts to look up at Optimus, a question writ across his brow.  
  
"I want you to know nothing has changed," Optimus says, because it needs to be said. "That no matter your origins, I trust you, and you will always be a mech in your own right. I see you no different now than I did before."  
  
A ripple runs through Prowl's armor, tingling against Optimus' palm before he withdraws his hand. "Thank you, Optimus," Prowl says. "It's a relief to hear you say that."  
  
He treats Optimus to a rare, small but genuine smile, and takes his leave.  
  
Optimus watches him go for a moment before he slips back into his habsuite, and beelines for his berthroom. It was easy enough to set aside his arousal while speaking with Prowl, but thinking of Jazz waiting for him in the berth is enough to bring it back to life.  
  
Peace is within reach. Optimus is even more sure of that now.  
  
So he's going to remind himself of all the reasons he's fighting for it, and he's going to go snuggle his lover.  
  


~

  
  
Prowl goes back to his office.  
  
It's never been locked to him, and when he steps inside, it's the closest feeling he has to coming home, other than sliding between Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.  
  
He sits at his desk, he powers up his console, and is immediately bombarded by announcements and messages. There are a thousand and one things that need his attention and rather than forward them to Ultra Magnus, Optimus had opted to leave them for Prowl. As if he trusted Prowl would return to his duty.  
  
Their faith in him is beyond measure. It makes Prowl's spark throb with warmth, with affection, and programming or not, he's sure it's not feigned. It has to be real. This gratitude, this comfort, this relief, it has to be real.  
  
It is real.  
  
Prowl smiles and settles in to work. There's a meeting later today, and he has only a partial draft of the treaty -- though he notices Ultra Magnus and Optimus both have logged in and made suggestions or proposals to his current draft. It'll be easy enough to incorporate them. Prowl should have something ready for the Decepticons by the meeting, including addressing the various concerns they’ve already made.  
  
It's what he's good at.  
  
It's what he was sparked to do.  
  


***


	7. Chapter 7

For all that the war was a long, bloody, violent clash of wills and anger, its end is the result of a peaceful negotiation. The only wounds are drawn with words, and Starscream in particular takes a savage glee in pointing out grammatical errors, while he and Ultra Magnus spar over the proper placement of a semi-colon.  
  
Prowl makes adjustments as needed, and allows them to verbally battle over the commas and the spellings and how many “party of the firsts” are needed for a compliance both sides can agree upon.  
  
At some point, Optimus wanders away with Jazz and Megatron disappears with Soundwave, until it is Prowl and Ultra Magnus fighting the good, diplomatic fight against Shockwave and Starscream. The former being a worthy adversary who, while he says little, when he does deign to speak it is a cutting word meant to slice to the spark of the matter.  
  
Rules and regulations are put into play, ones both parties agree to, though not without some grumbling on both parts. Concessions are made. Luckily none are dealbreakers, and when an impasse is reached, Prowl learns to duck and cover. He interjects as needed, but honestly, Ultra Magnus and Starscream look as if they are having so much fun, he hates to interrupt.  
  
Rebuilding is, of course, at the top of the list of ventures to be completed by both factions. It will be helmed by Hoist and Grapple and Scrapper, who will direct the Constructicons and other construction-trained mechs in Iacon. It’s easier to start with Iacon, since they are already present, but plans are made to branch out into other cities once they have a stable ground to consider a “home base”.  
  
A segregated home base, mind. Neither faction leader is foolish enough to think a cease-fire is enough to calm all tensions. The Autobots and the Decepticons will live apart for now, but they will make efforts to desegregate in the future. After all, separation will only lead to further issues.  
  
Leadership is one of the points of contention. No Decepticon wants to suffer under Autobot rule. No Autobot wants to report to a Decepticon. So a compromise must be made.  
  
A triumvirate is established. Optimus is set to maintain leadership over the civilian population, with the last word on policies and procedures, economics, and infrastructure. With the other two triumvers serving as his check and balances.  
  
Megatron will be the High Protector, an old position found in Iacon’s database, with leadership over the military and civil defense, including their Defensors, or a lukewarm version of Iacon’s former Enforcers. He will manage and maintain the military force in all branches of the government, but no overt acts of war can be made without approval from Optimus and Starscream.  
  
Yes. Starscream.  
  
Triumph gleams in the Seeker’s optics. Leadership is all he could have ever wanted, but since no one’s handing him the title of Winglord, he settles for Emirate. They’d had to argue him down from “High Chancellor of the Refulgent Cybertronian Dynasty, Emperor Perpetua and Defender of the Realm.” Though given the amusement curling Starscream’s lips, Prowl gathered that the obscenely long title had been something of a joke.  
  
The Emirate will lead the research and development on Cybertron. They will work to solve the energon crisis, to tether Cybertron to a sun, to create a self-defense system, and first of all, finalize and perfect an anti-virus. Prowl doesn’t think it’s possible for Starscream to be any more smug, and he struts around for weeks after the treaty is signed, convinced he’s going to single-handedly bring Cybertron to a prosperous platinum age.  
  
If he can do it, Prowl will be the first to stand up and applaud.  
  
As a result of the triumvirate, mechs are shuffled around. Ironhide grumbles as he reports to Megatron now, and Jazz technically does as well. They bump shoulders with Cyclonus and Deathsaurus respectively, and Prowl is reasonably certain a pecking order will eventually establish itself. Hopefully with a minor amount of spilled energon.  
  
Optimus appoints Ultra Magnus as his second, and for a moment, Prowl feels the sting of betrayal, as if Optimus’ words of trust had been nothing but empty promises. Until he’s cornered after that meeting by Megatron.  
  
“I asked Optimus not to claim you,” Megatron says as Prowl ventilates and tries not to let his emotions get the best of him.  
  
Surprise ricochets through Prowl’s spark. “What? Why? Do you think me untrustworthy?” Prowl demands, and outrage rises up within him, like an unquenchable tide, and he thinks maybe Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are rubbing off on him, because he has an urge to punch Megatron.  
  
“The opposite.” Megatron straightens, imposing without effort, and though Soundwave isn’t standing there, peering over his shoulder, Prowl takes care. “With Starscream as Emirate, I will need a second. Soundwave will be serving under Optimus, and Shockwave under Starscream. I can think of no other Autobot I would prefer than you.”  
  
Prowl takes a step back before he can compose himself. His sensory panels flick high and rigid. “I apologize, but it sounds like you are asking me to be your lieutenant.”  
  
“That’s exactly what I’m asking.” Megatron folds his arms behind his back, shoulders straightening. “You have the skills, you have the intelligence, and you have the experience. I’ve hated your strategies as much as I’ve admired them. So yes, my offer is genuine.”  
  
Prowl’s mouth opens and closes, but it still takes him a moment to form words. “You think I’m trustworthy? Even knowing what I was created to do?”  
  
“We were all created for a purpose. Most of us have broken free of it.” Megatron tilts his head, lips peeling back over pointed denta, and Prowl nearly smacks himself in the forehead.  
  
Of course Megatron, leader of the Decepticons, leader of a faction determined to break free of its chains, of its restrictions, would understand the struggle of overcoming one’s origins.  
  
“And I know you will ensure something like what happened to you and to my Seekers will never happen again. To anyone,” Megatron says.  
  
Prowl nods slowly, still surprised by the offer and the trust Megatron is giving him. "I... thank you, Lord Megatron," because the treaty has been signed, at least in this preemptive stage, and Megatron is now a mech worth of the title, "I am honored by the offer."  
  
"I'm also obligated to tell you that you can say no," Megatron says with a huff and one hand tapping his comm, as though someone is shouting in his audial about manners and consent. "There is always a place for you in Optimus' service, but I negotiated a chance to ask you first."  
  
Prowl does not trust Decepticons. He does not yet trust the treaty or Megatron. He's tentatively hopeful for the future lying in front of them, but he hasn’t put his entire faith in it yet. There are too many ways it can go wrong.  
  
However, with him as Megatron's second, many of those possibilities are negated. He can help direct the Decepticons toward peace, help guide them, and keep an optic out for potential detractors. He can be a voice of reason while the fallout of the virus continues to send it's ripples through the Decepticon army.  
  
He's most effective when he has a problem in front of him, and the Decepticons are rife with problems that need solving.  
  
"Very well," Prowl says, and he lifts his chin, shoulders squared with determination. "I accept."  
  
There's nothing left afterward but the paperwork. Prowl transfers his former duties into Ultra Magnus' waiting arms, and apologizes to Optimus for taking the new position, when he's only recently regained his previous one.  
  
"It was never lost to you," Optimus reminds him. His smile is bright and full of hope. "I hate to lose your guidance, but we will always be friends.  
  
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are a little less than enthusiastic, not out of a lack of pride or confidence in Prowl, but a concern of how much danger he'll be in, surrounded by Decepticons, many of whom carry a grudge.  
  
"We're coming with you," Sunstreaker says.  
  
"We aren't taking a badge or anything, but we're coming with you," Sideswipe agrees. They stand in front of the door, arms crossed, a pair of matching guardposts to keep him at bay.  
  
Prowl arches an orbital ridge and continues packing his belongings. "If you thought I intended to go without you, clearly neither of you have been paying attention. Though I didn't want to presume." He gives them an askance look.  
  
Sideswipe snorts. "You didn't think to just ask?"  
  
"You didn't give me a chance," Prowl points out. "You were both on shift. I intended to bring it up, but you beat me to it."  
  
"Oh." Sideswipe shifts, as if guilty, but Sunstreaker drops his arms and joins Prowl, grabbing an empty crate and starting to toss stuff into it.  
  
"Megatron okay with that?" he asks.  
  
Prowl makes a non-committal noise. "You'll have to learn to call him 'Lord Megatron' when in his presence, but yes, he's aware that I'm in a relationship with you two. He knows there's a likelihood you'll be coming with me, not that it matters, since it's a neutral area we're turning into a residence."  
  
"Can't be too careful," Sideswipe says as he finally moves away from the door to grab a crate and start moving stuff into it as well. "Still don't trust this cease-fire. Not until it's been a long while."  
  
"That's fair," Prowl says.  
  
Sunstreaker tosses a few datapads into a crate already half-full with them. "Didn't think we'd live long enough to see peace," he says, and it's soft, contemplative. "Either me or Sideswipe. Figured we'd die in battle. It's kind of weird to think we might actually have a future."  
  
"Don't even know what to do with ourselves, honestly," Sideswipe continues with a half-sparked roll of his shoulders. "I mean, it's not like Cybertron is gonna need a bunch of slum-born sparks afterward. The only thing we're good at is killing."  
  
"That's patently untrue," Prowl says. He stops packing and grabs for Sideswipe's hand, since Sunstreaker is yet out of reach. "You have many talents that can be of use in many ways. And in a time of peace, you can learn any skills you wish." He squeezes Sideswipe's hand, catching his gaze. "You are needed. Both of you."  
  
"It's not just that," Sunstreaker says as Sideswipe squeezes Prowl's hand, perhaps a bit too tightly, like he's afraid of letting go.  
  
Sunstreaker crouches next to Prowl, and his optics are hooded. Dark. Worried. "You're going to be Megatron's second in command," he murmurs. "Eventually, you'll realize you can do better."  
  
It's like a punch to the spark, that they'd think so little of themselves, or have so little faith in him. Perhaps he hasn't told them the truth of his feelings often enough or loud enough. He has been mistaken in thinking they understand the things he doesn't say.  
  
"Bond with me," Prowl says, in what is perhaps the most uncalculated risk he's ever taken, a choice made on impulse, and it's not until the words leave his lips that he realizes precisely how much he wants them to say yes.  
  
They blink at him in eerie unison, their fields spiking with matched surprise.  
  
"Not because I feel I have something to prove," Prowl is quick to clarify, because he can understand how they might leap from one statement to another, "but because we are entering an era of peace, and I can't think of anything I'd want more than the two of you, by my side, for the rest of our lives."  
  
Sideswipe stares at him, stunned, and it's Sunstreaker who leans forward, one hand resting on Prowl's knee. "That's permanent, Prowl."  
  
"I know. That's why I asked for it." Prowl cups Sunstreaker's cheek and pulls him closer, pressing their foreheads together. "I've had you two at my side for decades. I want that to continue into the centuries and millenia we have left."  
  
He pulls back and turns his attention on Sideswipe, tugging Sideswipe's hands so he's close enough for Prowl to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.  
  
"I want you both, as you are, as you were, and whatever you wish to become," Prowl murmurs, stroking his thumb over the back of Sideswipe's hands. "You can tell me 'no'. You don't have to decide now. But I want you both to know I mean it."  
  
They exchange a glance, and Prowl knows they are talking over their shared bond. There's anticipation in the air, buzzing through their fields.  
  
Prowl waits. Patience is something he has in spades, and for such an important decision, he's willing to wait as long as it takes. He doesn't want any of them to enter into this with regret.  
  
"We love you," Sunstreaker says, at length, his gaze shifting from his twin to Prowl. "Separately and together."  
  
"We never thought we'd find someone we'd consider bonding, or who would want both of us," Sideswipe adds with a crooked, self-deprecating grin. "We're a handful, you know."  
  
Prowl smiles back. "I know. I happen to enjoy that."  
  
Sideswipe snorts a laugh.  
  
Sunstreaker shakes his head. "You two are ridiculous," he says, but his tone is fond rather than irritated.  
  
"We do have an answer," Sideswipe says with a squeeze to Prowl's hand, a stroke of his thumb over Prowl’s palm. "And that answer is yes."  
  
"Yes, Prowl, we'll bond with you," Sunstreaker echoes, leaning in for a nuzzle that sets Prowl's spark awhirl with delight. "But only after you let us sufficiently woo you."  
  
Sideswipe grins and leans in to caress Prowl's other cheek. "We have such ideas," he purrs, and his tone sends a different shiver through Prowl's frame. “You haven’t packed up the berth, right?”  
  
Prowl chuckles as heat flushes his armor and spreads south to his groin. “Not yet. I assumed we’d spend one last night here.”  
  
“You assumed correctly,” Sunstreaker murmurs, and he presses a kiss to the curve of Prowl’s jaw, right below his audial. “We can finish packing tomorrow, yes?”  
  
A low groan spills out of Prowl before he can tamp it down. “Primus, yes.”  
  
Sideswipe chuckles and draws back, only to grab both of Prowl’s hands and pull him to his feet, a show of strength that makes Prowl more than a little weak in the knees. The twins are barely taller than him, but they both out-mass him, with their heavier battle-armor and their reinforced hydraulics.  
  
“We have a lot to celebrate,” Sideswipe says as he draws Prowl toward the berth, and Prowl goes without hesitation, nimbly avoiding a stumble on a crate at the last second. “The end of the war, your new job, our upcoming bond…”  
  
“I want you both,” Prowl says, without hesitation and in answer to the implied question.  
  
Sideswipe grins, and it turns very sly. “Oh, you want a twin sandwich, hm?” he purrs and pulls Prowl into an embrace, his hands wandering and his lips tracing a hot, wet path around the curve of Prowl’s jaw. “I think that can be arranged.”  
  
Sunstreaker presses against Prowl’s back, easily notching between his sensory panels, his arms sliding around Prowl’s belly, for his hands to flatten on it. “Like this?” he asks as he nibbles on the back of Prowl’s neck.  
  
He groans, head tilting forward to lay against Sideswipe’s collar fairing, baring more of his neck to Sunstreaker’s mouth. “Sure,” Prowl says, his array throbbing with a building need.  
  
Sideswipe chuckles and nudges a knee between Prowl’s thighs, the top of it scrubbing his interface panel. “Berth or here on the floor?”  
  
“Berth,” Prowl pants. He’s not as young as he used to be. And why avoid the berth when there’s one right in front of them?  
  
“Such a delicate crystal, our Prowl,” Sideswipe murmurs as he nuzzles Prowl, but there’s no taunt in his tone, just affectionate tease.  
  
He pulls Prowl back to the berth, an awkward shuffling of footsteps as Sunstreaker never strays far from his back, and Sideswipe stays within reach of kissing. Their hands roam. It’s dizzying, the attention they pay him, the full bend of their gaze. It’s overwheming at times, and that’s exactly what Prowl needs, to be overwhelmed by them.  
  
He loves them so much, it’s a swell in his spark, threatening to burst.  
  
They tumble onto the berth. Sideswipe pulls Prowl into his arms, into a straddle of Sideswipe’s lower half, his aft planted on Sideswipe’s groin. Sunstreaker, a few seconds behind, presses against Prowl’s back and lays a string of kisses along his left sensory panel. Fingers brush over Prowl from behind, and he shivers, leaning back into Sunstreaker’s arms.  
  
“Gonna need to loosen you up if you want both of us,” Sunstreaker murmurs.  
  
Prowl moans quietly. He opens his panels and cants his hips back for two fingers to slide into him, slick with lubricant, rubbing pointedly over his tingling nodes.  
  
Sideswipe touches his spike panel and offers a hungry grin. “Let me distract ya, Prowl,” he says. His glossa sweeps over his lips, making them glisten.  
  
Prowl wants to kiss him, but he’d have to lean away from Sunstreaker to do it. Such difficult choices he has at times.  
  
He lets his spike free, sighing as Sideswipe wraps his fingers around him, giving him a stroke. He’s already leaking, spike throbbing. What they stir inside of him has never ceased to amaze.  
  
“You’re so beautiful for us,” Sideswipe says, and there’s something in his tone that speaks of wonder. “We’re the only ones who get to see this side of you, aren’t we?”  
  
Prowl swallows over a lump in his intake, leaning back into Sunstreaker’s fingers, all three of them now, working deep, embracing his nodes and building charge in his valve.  
  
“Only you,” Prowl murmurs, and he shivers as Sunstreaker strokes him perfectly, strokes him deep, and rubs firmly over the cluster of nodes just behind the rim of his valve.  
  
“Open up, Sides,” Sunstreaker says, and the command in his voice makes both Sideswipe and Prowl react, Sideswipe’s optics darkening with hunger, and Prowl’s sensory panels flutter.  
  
Prowl is, or was, the second in command to the Autobots. Now he will stand at Megatron’s side, helping to guide the Decepticons in a post-war world. Authority always cloaks Prowl like a second armor.  
  
However, a single commanding word from Sunstreaker is enough to bring him to his knees. It makes him weak in the best ways, makes him go limp between his twins, offering himself to the pleasure he knows they’re going to give.  
  
There’s a click and a hot length nudges against the inside of Prowl’s thighs, pre-fluid slicking his armor. He groans, sinks down, and Sunstreaker’s lubricant wet fingers help guide Sideswipe inside him.  
  
Prowl shivers, pumping forward into Sideswipe’s grip as Sideswipe’s spike teases along his internal nodes, making them sing. Pressure on his backstrut leans him forward, into Sideswipe’s arms, into range of Sideswipe’s lips for several open-mouthed kisses.  
  
“Mmm, that’s what I was hoping for,” Sideswipe says against Prowl’s lips, his glossa a sweeping tease, his hands shifting to touch Prowl’s sensory panels, caressing every erogenous sensor he and his brother have discovered over the decades.  
  
Prowl quivers between them. His valve flexes around Sideswipe’s spike. Slick noises of lubricant are his only warning before a finger slips in beside Sideswipe’s spike, with no resistance at all.  
  
Sunstreaker releases a soft moan. “Primus, you’re so ready for us now. It’s incredible. You’re incredible.”  
  
Sideswipe chuckles softly and says, too quietly for it go any further than Prowl’s audials, “Sounds like Bluestreak a little, doesn’t he?”  
  
“You hush,” Prowl retorts, and swallows thickly as Sideswipe shifts his hips, shifting his spike inside of Prowl, and sliding over a different sensor, sending a wave of pleasure through his array. “I’m ready, Sunstreaker.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Another finger slides in behind the other, teasing at Prowl’s rim, stroking where he and Sideswipe are already joined. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’m bigger than Sideswipe.”  
  
“We’re twins, you dumbaft!”  
  
Sunstreaker strokes around Prowl’s valve, teasing the delicate folds, igniting his exterior sensors before sweeping over his anterior node. Pleasure jolts through his array and Prowl jerks, his fingers tightening in the berth covers.  
  
“I’m sure,” Prowl says with a groan. He rests his forehead on Sideswipe’s clavicular strut, vent hot and wet through his denta. “Please.”  
  
“Primus, when you beg like that,” Sunstreaker groans as he presses against Prowl, spike sliding firm and slick over his aft. He gently grabs Prowl’s hip with one hand, while the other guides him to Prowl’s valve. “Tell me if I need to stop.”  
  
Prowl curls his fingers into the berth cover. “I won’t need to,” he says as Sideswipe grabs him for a kiss, one that makes his backstrut buzz with heat, and arousal surge through his lines.  
  
The head of Sunstreaker’s spike presses against him, and he moans as Sunstreaker eases into him, stretching his valve wide with each incremental rock of his hips. Heat radiates through his frame, his sensornet swelling with pleasure, and Prowl arches his back, coaxing Sunstreaker deeper.  
  
Both of Sunstreaker’s hands are on his hips now, steadying him, as he presses into Prowl inch by precious inch, and Sideswipe trembles below, on the precipice of wanting to thrust. The care they take with him makes Prowl’s spark throb with affection. It’s impossible not to love them, these two fierce and independent and honorable mechs.  
  
“You okay?” Sunstreaker asks. His tone is strained, his field quivering in the space around them.  
  
They’re both waiting now, holding still, while Prowl’s valve flexes and twitches around their spikes, a stretch that’s a shade too much, but altogether perfect. Their spikes throb, slightly out of sync, and it’s so incongruous, Prowl has to swallow a smile. They are identical in many things, but not this.  
  
Sunstreaker’s arms slide around him, better an embrace, bearing Prowl’s weight. He scatters kisses along the back of Prowl’s sensory panels, the back of his neck, each one leaving a tingle, a rise in charge, in their wake.  
  
Prowl moves, tentatively at first, rocking back and down onto their spikes, moaning as his nodes sing with pleasure and his valve cycles around them, feeding charge into their arrays.  
  
“Perfect,” Prowl finally replies, and moves again, a little faster, a little further, a little harder. He takes them deeper, until they nearly nudge his ceiling node, and lubricant spills from his valve as he trembles. His elbows weaken, and he would have fallen onto Sideswipe, if Sunstreaker hadn’t held him, if Sideswipe hadn’t reached up to brace him.  
  
“Let us,” Sideswipe murmurs as he guides Prowl down, as Sunstreaker curves over him from behind.  
  
“We know the dance,” Sunstreaker says, equally silken, an erotic promise in Prowl’s other audial. Their fields entangle his, wrap him up, pulse to the same beat as the throb of their spikes, still barely arrhythmic.  
  
Prowl shivers and melts between them, his valve opening up, taking them deeper, and they groan in unison as they notch inside of him. Prowl’s sensors flutter madly. Charge licks out, tasting their spikes, and his engines rumble a faster pitch.  
  
It becomes a blur after that, as it so often does, when he’s pressed between them, with two sets of hands to tease his sensors, and two spikes to rub and rake along his innner nodes. For the slick glide of his own spike along Sideswipe’s abdomen, the sensitive head catching and rubbing on seams, leaving streaks of pre-fluid behind.  
  
Prowl moves between them, but only just. There’s very little he needs to do but shift and twitch and enjoy the pleasure they lavish on him. Overload builds and builds inside of him, not an artillery shell launched in the air for a brief, but beautiful explosion, but the slow-climbing wave of a pulse weapon, starting in his groin and branching outward, swallowing him inch by inch.  
  
He overloads with a quiet whine, his valve squeezing down, calipers flexing in a rhythmic wave, his spike spurting over Sideswipe’s abdomen. His vision flickers with static. His sensors go haywire, and the ecstasy lingers around, doubling back in on itself, as they keep moving, as they push him higher and higher.  
  
Prowl moans, limp on top of Sideswipe, feeling them moving inside of him, around him. He’s twitching his hips, up and down, back and forth, as his sensors pulse with pleasure and another overload sends a wave of blue fire across his armor.  
  
“Beautiful,” Sunstreaker murmurs.  
  
“And ours,” Sideswipe echoes.  
  
Yes, Prowl agrees as the pleasure sweeps him up and drags him into an explosive overload that’s enough to knock him into a reset of the very best kind.  
  
He is theirs.  
  


~

  
  
"How do you feel?"  
  
Drift frowns and turns his awareness inward. "The same.” He searches his emotions, tries to pick them apart and identify them, but nothing sticks out to him as changed. "Am I supposed to feel different?"  
  
"The virus was subtle. Any alterations it made were subtle, therefore removing it will only bring a subtle change," Ratchet says from over the rim of a datapad where his stylus is moving in quick succession, taking notes Drift assumes.  
  
Drift catches Perceptor's gaze as he nods slowly. "Then how do we know it worked?"  
  
"We trust. And we hope," Ratchet says, and he offers Drift a crooked grin. "Watch and see, too. There may be something buried we didn't know was there that causes it to root itself all over again."  
  
Drift sighs and sweeps a hand over his head. "I suppose that means I'm in for a check-up every month?"  
  
"Week," Ratchet corrects.  
  
Drift sighs again.  
  
Perceptor, however, smiles, and for the first time in weeks, looks genuinely relieved, like a massive weight has been lifted from his shoulders. "It’s a precaution. We want to be sure."  
  
"And I want you to be sure," Drift replies with a lift of his shoulders. "But I'm not looking forward to trekking out to that neutral facility all the uppers are moving into." He gives Ratchet a pointed look. "Since a certain medic here is now answering to a higher power."  
  
Ratchet rolls his optics. "Don't you start." He tucks his datapad away and points at Drift's chestplate. "Take it easy. Don't do anything strenuous. Maybe cuddle this scientist of yours. Enjoy the peace, Drift."  
  
Drift exchanges a knowing look with Perceptor. He always did like to poke the sleeping Sharkticon. "Are you going to take your advice with your own scientist?"  
  
Ratchet rears back, and Drift swears something like a flush colors his face. "I don't know what you're talking about."  
  
"Really?" Perceptor's voice takes on a hint of mischief. "Were you not telling me earlier you were unavailable tonight because you had a prior commitment?"  
  
"A date?" Drift prompts with two raised orbital ridges and a devilish grin.  
  
Ratchet sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'll have you two stay out of my business, thank you very much." There's a flutter in his field though, barely discernible, of excitement and anticipation.  
  
It's more than a little wonderful the cease-fire seems to be holding steady, the treaty is one both sides can agree to, and they may actually have a future now. Drift sometimes onlines and wonders if he's trapped in a dream and he never woke up from his glitch, because the world is so changed around him.  
  
"I think it's sweet," Perceptor says.  
  
"Very sweet," Drift echoes with a nod. "You two will make such pretty sparklings."  
  
Ratchet throws his hands into the air and rolls his optics. "I'm ignoring the both of you and pronouncing Drift free to go." He turns and gestures to the door, making shooing motions. "Out, out, out, this medbay is for active patients only."  
  
Drift laughs and hops down from the berth. "Does that mean I don't need to come back next week?"  
  
"Don't make me get my wrench," Ratchet says in a dark tone.  
  
Perceptor's lips twitch before curving into a grin. He hooks an arm around Drift's elbow and tugs him toward the door. "Oh, my. That means he's serious, Drift. We'd better go."  
  
"And I'll see you next week!" Ratchet calls after him.  
  
"Then you can tell me all about your date with Starscream," Drift tosses through the door before he wisely escapes with Perceptor, who shakes his head and gives him an affectionate look.  
  
"Must you provoke him?"  
  
Drift leans in and presses a kiss to Perceptor's cheek. "Yes, I must. It's good for him." He pauses, taking on a note of seriousness. "Ratchet's always been too stressed, too worried about everyone else. I'm glad he's finally chasing something for himself."  
  
"Even if that something is Starscream?"  
  
"Well, no one's perfect."  
  
Perceptor chuckles. "To be fair, I do think they are a good match. They complement each other."  
  
"Yeah, Screamer's not too bad when you give him a chance." Drift leans over, tucking himself further into Perceptor's side and warmth. "Come on. Let's go find that room we've not slept in once and enjoy my freedom and some privacy."  
  
Perceptor's field flirts with his, warm and full of affection. "Both of those things are appealing to me. I've missed you."  
  
"Despite the fact you've not been far from my side since I collapsed."  
  
"You know what I mean."  
  
"Yeah." Drift grins, his insides fluttering and his spark strobing a happy rhythm. "I do."  
  


~

  
  
Prowl onlines slowly, luxuriously, his sensors blinking on one by one, registering warmth and comfort and familiar noises. Rather than burst into alertness, he lets himself swim in the hazy in-between, where he’s not quite online, but he’s not quite in recharge either. It’s a resting state, and he hasn’t allowed himself to indulge in it since before the official start of the war.  
  
A quiet, warm chuckle caresses his left audial before lips press a kiss to the curve of his neck. “I know you’re awake,” Sideswipe murmurs, and the touch of his mouth sends a shiver across Prowl’s armor. “Welcome back.”  
  
He distantly registers the delicate swipe of an impossibly soft mesh cloth against his armor, and can tell without looking, Sunstreaker is on the other end of it. Cleaning him. Buffing him. Polishing him. It’s one of the many quiet ways Sunstreaker shows he cares, where Sideswipe is more verbally aggressive about it.  
  
Prowl manages a soft chuckle and onlines his optics. The room has been dimmed while he was drifting, but his chronometer informs him very little time has passed. Judging by the quiet, satisfied thrums of the twins, they had reached their peaks not long after him.  
  
“Mmm. There you are,” Sideswipe says with a kiss to the curve of Prowl’s jaw. “Looked so cute I almost didn’t want to wake you.”  
  
“We do have to finish packing,” Prowl says, making no efforts to move. He quite likes where he is.  
  
“We’ll do that in the morning,” Sunstreaker says, with a tone of finality. “We have plenty of time.”  
  
Yes, they do. There’s no war, no battle on the horizon, no one frantically pinging Prowl’s comm for an emergency meeting because of some horrendous battle-time act.  
  
It’s peaceful.  
  
It’s perfect.  
  
“In the morning,” Prowl agrees and reaches for Sunstreaker, managing to catch him about the wrist. “Finish that in the morning, too. Come lay down next to me instead.”  
  
“Prowl wants his cuddles,” Sideswipe translates.  
  
“Yes, I do,” Prowl confirms, and his spark swells at the delight in Sunstreaker’s optics, the way he melts into the affection Prowl offers him.  
  
Sunstreaker settles beside him carefully, and Sideswipe flops down, and there’s a brief scuffle over who puts their arms where, but Prowl lets them work it out on their own, as he always does. He listens to it with a smile on his lips and affection in his spark, and something a lot like contentment rising up inside of him.  
  
He didn’t know it was possible, but here it is, right in front of him. He has already taken it, and he’ll fight to keep it, and if he’s at all lucky, the fight is truly done, and all that’s left are the consequences.  
  
Fortunately, Prowl has always been good at cleaning up messes.  
  


***


End file.
